


take a chance with me, it will be alright

by LazyBaker



Series: falling for you in hawkins, indi-fucking-ana [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy has powers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, teenage boys being teenage boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2020-02-09 08:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 83,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyBaker/pseuds/LazyBaker
Summary: Steve gets dissed, Billy sees stars, and the truth comes out.





	1. “Hold on to your ridiculous pants, Hargrove.” [1/6]

It’s the last day before winter break.

His dad is in the kitchen, his mom is still showering upstairs, and, now, Steve is in the kitchen too.

On a scale of messed up situations, this is worse than a demodog breaking through the kitchen window and coming for Steve’s head.

 

—

 

The thing about his parents being home for _the holidays_ is the house has this amazing ability to shrink when all three Harringtons are inside at once.

While his dad lurks downstairs, his mom flitters between floors, phone attached to her ear.

Steve was just a kid when he learned the very much needed skill of _avoiding_ when he figured out the Harrington household needed him to.

He knows his dad doesn’t soften his steps. He stomps. Started dragging his feet as he’s gotten older. Makes it known to the entire street he’s going in this direction and he’d like it if you got out of his way.

His mom glides through the house in slippers or socks. She has cold feet. It’s the most personal fact about his mom he knows. Her toes get cold just as much in the summer as in the winter. Heaters be damned, thick woolen socks are for her when she’s home and her high heels are parked upstairs.

Steve figured out to be quiet. Leave his room soundlessly. Walk down the hall and down the stairs and out the front door without alerting either of his parents he was on the move. It was better to be silent and ignored then to be making a ruckus and _still_ ignored.

Steve became a ninja. Good at keeping his big feet muffled and learning the creaks of the floorboards to avoid. Hide and seek is his game. Hitting home runs may have gotten him the nickname _king_ before puberty knocked him over and spurred him on to different kinds of after school _activities,_ but he is a goddamn _beast_ at hide and seek.

Tommy had once ransacked Steve’s house then his own house trying to find him before crying uncle.

Steve knows how to make himself scarce when his mom and his dad decide it’s time to play family again. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are not meant to play family is the other big thing Steve realized and then only quietly admitted to himself when he saw how _other_ people’s families didn’t pretend.

It’s why he spent so many nights sleeping over at Tommy’s and it’s why, when the house had just him to fill in the large, empty rooms, Tommy would bike over and bunk with him so often.

Unlike his parents, Steve never could pretend that well. He wanted to. He tried. It’s just—Steve noticed the half-hearted plastered over cracks in the silent dinners and the polite, disinterested way of trying to care without actually caring and ended up wanting the real thing too much.

 _And all this_ is why Steve should have known better than to walk right into the kitchen to grab something to eat before his ride to school pulled up and rescued him from being cooped up in his parent’s attempt at being a regular ole American family.

 

—

 

His dad is sitting at the table. An empty plate in front of him, his morning cup of coffee in one hand, the other holding up a folded newspaper. His glasses are perched on the end of his nose. Whatever he’s reading is making him do that one frown that means things are not all that great and that _Reagan deserves better than this America._

Or maybe it’s the stock market that’s still a mystery to Steve as to _what_ it is and why it makes his dad so red in the face some days.

Or maybe it’s congress.

Or maybe it’s _the queers_.

Or maybe it’s just Steve and Steve understands that one. There are days Steve has the same reaction to himself.

 _Not today._ Today he looks great. He could look better. Spring is really the hot spot when it comes to _weather_ and _his hair_. He’s made it work though. _He’s fine_. Not even a frumpy winter coat is going to dampen what he’s got going on and he’s got a lot going on, okay.

His dad hasn’t noticed Steve yet, which is ideal and puts to rest some of the anxiety that comes with being alone in a room with him. So Steve makes his way to the cabinet with the cereal, intent on grabbing any box and hightailing it out of the room and possibly out of the house too to go wait outside in the cold.

In a game of _would you rather_ Steve would pick _freezing his balls off in the cold_ over _having another talk with his dad about his future_ every single time. He doesn’t even have to think about it. If he did think about it he’d need to lie down for awhile.

Like. Disappointment is always waiting around the corner when it comes to him and his dad interacting.

“Steve.” His dad says. It’s his _good morning_. He wakes up early and gets the newspaper delivered into his hand by the paperboy. He should be in his office by now.

It’s too late for either one of them to get up and leave. That would be admitting they avoid each other. Harringtons aren’t that honest.

Steve has his hand on the cabinet door, the door open, a box of Cheerios waiting for him to swipe it and run off into the sunset together.

“Morning.” Steve says. He inches the box off the shelf and down onto the counter.

His dad has shaved his mustache for the first time in decades and he looks _weird_ and Steve’s suspicious over what exactly it means and how it’s going to cause trouble for him. Because it will. There’s no doubt about it. They’ve been home for a week now and Steve’s just waiting for whatever shoe his dad has behind his back to be thrown right at his face and knock Steve down a few more pegs.

Something is going to drop.

His dad sets his coffee down then his newspaper. Folds his glasses and slips them into his shirt pocket to fold his hands and give Steve his full attention.

He taps the table and there _on the table_ is Billy’s stud earring. It glints in the cloudy, winter sunlight shining through the windows.

“I found this in the pool’s filter.” His dad says with his mustacheless face as the only person in the world who actually enjoys testing the PH level of the pool, but who only ever thinks to check the filter when he remembers it’s there.

“Did you have a girl over?”

His dad is watching him, waiting for a crack to show. Any crack he might see is all _well, you know_ Hawkins-grown Steve Harrington, the first and only son of The All American Harrington Family.

Steve’s knee-jerk reaction is to curl inwards, hunch over and hug himself. When his dad looks at him like this, serious and already unhappy with him, Steve just wants to back out of the room and hide. Go back to bed and get under ten blankets and wait till his dad takes his next business trip.

But Steve did not wake up at six this morning, change his outfit three times, wrestle with his hair because he slept on it weird and there was somehow a crease in it, to then have his dad acknowledge his existence and want to talk to him and have this conversation.

Box of Cheerios under his arm, Steve goes over and picks up the earring. Turns it around. Examines it from all sides. Pretends to have the realization that it must be Carol’s because Carol might as well be the neighbor’s Labrador rather than a girl his dad will have to inspect and worry over. She doesn’t count in the no girls rule. She’s just Carol.

“Nope. No girl. Maybe Carol’s? Yep—yeah. This is definitely Carol’s.” Steve says. No girls. No girlfriend. Two kids and a drunk guy isn’t anything close to a party. It’s too early in the morning to tell his dad guy’s have pierced ears too.

His dad eyes him and Steve weathers the familiar, uncomfortable scrutiny like he usually does by focusing on anything or anyone other than his dad.

The newspaper headline reads _Starcourt Mall Back in Play_. The box of Cheerios is half full and he’s definitely going to eat all of it before first period. The earring has a gold backing. Billy hasn’t been over to his house since _that night_ so he must have lost it then.

Steve wishes Billy would’ve told him, but that would mean Billy bringing up _that night_ and Billy hasn’t once so Steve hasn’t either.

His dad sighs.

“You’re of an age—“ His dad starts and Steve shrivels and jumps to cut off this conversation as quickly as he can.

“—I’m not dating _anyone_ , dad.” Steve tries, desperate to not be here, in this kitchen, right now. Regretting every choice he made this morning to come down here. He doesn’t need breakfast. Food is so over with.

But his dad is determined to make it so all their future conversations will only happen with a phone line between them.

“ _You’re of an age_ ,” his dad starts again, “where you have to think about your future and you have to take precautions, Steve.”

“I do. I have. I’m gonna be late for school, so.” Steve starts backing out of the kitchen.

“Fooling around with girls is not going to do you any favors if—“

“—I’m not. I don’t want—“

“—and I don’t want what happened to Terrance to happen to you.” His dad says with finality.

This is his usual go-to, throwing his cousin who Steve has only met, like, twice in his entire life and has spoken— _maybe_ —three words to, in Steve’s face. Like having a kid is so bad. Like it’s the worst thing to ever happen to a person. Like Steve’s life would be ruined by having a family.

 _Like._ Okay. Message received.

“It won’t, dad.”

“Good.”

Steve tosses the earring in the air and catches it in his palm then pockets it.

“Thank for finding this, I would’ve gotten an earful.”

His dad puts his glasses back on, picks the newspaper back up and Steve thinks for a second his dad is dismissing him and Steve can go touch up his hair and find some peace in his life again.

“Joe senior called.” His dad says without looking at Steve. “The car’s ready to be picked up.”

“Okay.”

His dad unfolds the newspaper, seemingly, so he can look at Steve over it. “And you’ll pick it up today after school?”

A good question. Steve wavers, stuck between lying and telling the truth.

 _Today’s no good ‘cause school?_ or _actually, would it be okay if old Joe just kept the car because Billy Hargrove and, like, I’m really into this whole situation we’ve got going on?_

Neither one has much of an upside.

“Sunday.” Steve says.

His dad puts the newspaper down and Steve really should’ve just ran and pretended he didn’t hear him.

“The shop’s closed on Sunday.”

Steve shrugs. Hugs the box of Cheerios to his chest. “Monday, then.”

“Saturday.” His dad says. “You’ll pick the car up on Saturday.”

Steve puts on his _good and responsible and totally obedient_ son smile. “Saturday. I can do Saturday.”

“And next week you’ll come to the club with me.” It’s not a question. It never really is.

“Okay.”

“Interpersonal relationships are important for a successful career, Steve.”

Steve nods and says, “sounds fun.”

“Is that really Carol’s?”

_Does it really matter?_

Steve swallows. Stands a little straighter. His knees shake. There’s a heavy weight to truth.

He says, “there’s no girl. There’s not gonna be a girl. It’s—it’s actually a guy’s.”

His dad looks at him, not seeing him. Steve can clearly hear him ask _why do I bother with you_ in his head. His dad doesn’t have to say it anymore. All Steve needs is the _look_ and the disappointment is understood.

“Always a comedian.” His dad says to himself and then grunts and their conversation for the day is done. He picks up the newspaper and goes back to his world and leaves Steve to his.

 

—

 

Steve goes upstairs, turns on his stereo—Billy Joel—and gives his hair another spray. Fiddles with a few strands. Anxiety flushes his skin and makes him want to hop in the shower and start over again because it’s just not right—there’s too much of it going _this way_ when it should be going _that way_ —and it has to be _right_ , but there’s no time and he’s not about to go outside with wet, un-perfected hair.

Instead he swishes around some Listerine. Changes his shirt. Picks out a green t-shirt and starts to re-layer. Switches out his jeans for another pair that clings a little tighter. He looks his reflection from head to toe. Grins. Smooths his eyebrows down with his thumbs. Runs a quick comb through to really capture the mood of his do.

And because he can he takes Billy’s earring and holds it up to his ear to see what it would look like on him, what kind of Steve it would turn him into.

His cheeks go pink.

He quickly shoves it back into his pocket. He’s no Billy Hargrove.

Steve droops. Rubs at his temple. His dad is in his head and it’s not exactly _great_ and his entire day has somehow been thrown off.

His reflection looks a little down and he wants to clap the guy on the back and tell him to perk up. Two weeks without school is nothing to sniff at.

Steve eats a handful of Cheerios—they don’t taste like much and they dry up his mouth but he can eat them a handful at a time and it’s the box he chose. It’s not like he’s going back into the kitchen after that. Mostly they just taste like Listerine and the mint of toothpaste.

He looks at the clock by his bed then checks his watch. Ten minutes. He picks his step up a bit, does a spin, his good mood coming back to him. Ten minutes is nothing.

He can totally handle ten more minutes in the house. He’s managed eighteen years so far.

Ten minutes.

Easy peasy.

 

—

 

The driveway is empty. It’s freezing outside. Winter in Hawkins is somehow worse than summer in Hawkins and summer in Hawkins has humidity that fucks his hair up and no amount of product can un-fuck it. Somehow winter is worse than _that_.

Steve sits on the fourth step of the staircase, boots on, box of cereal by his side, and backpack sitting unzipped between his legs. Inside are a stack of cassettes, _The Sirens of Titan_ , his binder full of notes for his pre-cal test this morning he should probably have cracked open last night or any time this morning or at all this week or looked at _any_ of the college brochures magically piling up on his desk in his room or start figuring a way out of a job a this dad’s company that doesn’t mean _more_ school.

School is over. He’s so not into it. He’s calling it now—school is a dud.

He can hear his dad sipping at his coffee in the kitchen. Mumbling about _something_. The base-of-your-throat grunting gets the _I don’t approve of this, so it’s wrong_ point across walls and half a house apart to Steve on his stoop. It _feels_ like it’s aimed at him. It probably is. That’s how it usually goes.

Steve checks his watch again. Fifteen seconds have passed. It’s almost eight in the morning and the day is just taking forever with itself. His knee is jumping.

Steve checks his watch _again._ Doing this makes the ten minute wait a slog, turning it into twenty minutes, half a day, he’s been sitting on the fourth step of this staircase for years listening to his dad drink his coffee and disagree with whatever it is he’s reading or thinking that Steve doesn’t understand and won’t ever understand.

He checks his watch. Again. Cracks open The Sirens of Titan to have something to focus on other than the empty driveway he can see perfectly through the front windows.

Tries to read a line from the book. Listens to his dad _grunt_ and say, very clearly for once, _goddamn San Francisco queers_ and there’s an odd pang in Steve’s chest.

The words on the page swim in front of him, asking him why he’s bothering to read this book and why he’s hoarding this book in the first place when Billy’s probably been looking for it.

The answer is a little _too_ pathetic to put into actual words. Billy can probably sweet talk the librarian into forgetting all about the book anyways. Steve snaps it shut and shoves it into his backpack.

He’ll give the book back today. He’ll study for his test right now. He’ll go to some college in September, ace all of his classes, meet a girl from a good family and marry her, and _then_ his parents will be proud they had him.

Steve checks his watch.

It’s too early to be looking numbers. Or words.

His pre-cal notes—that he copied from Samantha because he’s not about to grovel to Carol—are in his folder in his backpack and his backpack is literally open and he can see his notes and the test is the only test for today and he’s in that fun position where he could fail any of his classes if he so much as misses _one day_ and, like, he’s struggling real hard to _care at all_.

Graduating isn’t as big a _thing_ for him as it is his parents. It’s just a _thing_ to Steve.

His mom’s perfume today has this sweet scent that carries. Then the door to their bedroom is opening and shutting upstairs. There’s the familiar pattern of her walking down the hall to the stairs. Short steps. She’s wearing her slippers.

He’d wait outside, carefully evading any talks about his future where she does the talking and piles her hopes too high and Steve mumbles something half-hearted out, if it wasn’t December and this wasn’t Indiana and it wasn’t _Hawkins_ and it wasn’t so _goddamn cold_.

If Steve had to ride his bike through this kind of weather, he’d skip. Graduating or being a drop out—either one, as far as Steve can tell, leads to the same place—except,

Except.

Except Steve may not have his car and he isn’t biking to school and not being a drop out means seeing Billy Hargrove first thing in the morning five days a week and today is the last day he gets to have that.

 

—

 

She’s wearing her fluffy white slippers that match her robe, her hair’s still wet from the shower, curls loose around her face.

His mom stops on the step Steve is sitting on and lightly touches the ends of his hair, a quick barely there skim with her fingertips that hardly feels real and makes Steve curl in on himself, hunching over his bag, away from her.

She says _good morning_. Steve _grunts_. Talks with his mom, more and more lately, lead to talks about _college_ and _his future_.

Steve’s not into it. Ever. Especially right now.

It’s Friday and Steve may be dumb and he my not graduate, but he’s smart enough to know it’s not the best idea to start the weekend off with telling his mom he doesn’t want to go to college and he is definitely not going to go to college and if he works for his dad he might just drive himself into the quarry.

He’s danced around it. Sugar coated it before when he’s told her.

 _Maybe college isn’t for me_ or _not sure I have the GPA for that one_.

She’d never listened. She’s as bad as his dad. She wants Steve to go to college. He wants Steve to work at his company.

Steve doesn’t know shit in general and he knows even less shit about commercial real estate.

Neither one of them listen to him.

Sometimes he thinks if he said it outright she might actually _hear_ him. The trouble comes when she doesn’t.

Or she’d tell his dad and Steve has _plans_ for this weekend that can’t involve being taken captive by his parents for a _conversation_ that none of them want to have, but it’ll still take _days_ and ends with Steve in a tie with a 9-5 and he’s not nearly as pretty as Dolly Parton to make that work.

The weekend is too precious and if Steve has to deal with his parents—he just can’t. He’s having a _great_ hair day and he looks _amazing_ and Billy is going to be here any minute and somehow it’s already December and he _can’t do it,_ won’t do it. He’s going to keep his mouth shut.

He’ll just apply to every college his mom puts in front of him and when they all reject him—problem solved.

His mom will _listen_ to official rejection letters. His dad will forget he ever made any ultimatums about Steve and his _future_ and—his dad can suck it.

Steve’s just decided. On the fourth step of this staircase Steve’s _finally_ decided it. His dad and his missing mustache and his family photos that only come out once a year on Christmas and all the cursing about _queers_ , occupying the kitchen, _forgetting_ about Steve, acting like this is their home, like it’s not _weird_ for Steve to think it’s better without either one of them—

_His dad can suck it._

Steve does his own version of the Harrington _grunt_ , zips his backpack closed, ducks under his mom’s hand, deciding he’s going to wait outside before his mood takes another hit or worse—his hair goes flat, when he hears the distinct and now welcoming sound of the camaro turning onto his street, zooming way too fast down the road to round the driveway, tires spitting out rocks and the sludge of melting ice.

In a hurry he grabs his bag and his cereal, he stops by the mirror only for a few seconds to check his hair and move a few strands back into place and second guesses himself to the fourth time—he _really_ should’ve changed his shirt. He shoves his coat on on the way out. Ugly and frumpy and doesn’t do anything for him other than to keep him warm.

It’s the last day before winter break and pointless college tours and the annual _Harringtons putting on their family face for one night a year_ and Steve’s too old to live off the scraps anymore.

His mom gingerly pulls the curtain away from the front window to peer outside.

“You should invite him over.” She says, insane. “I’d love to meet this new friend of yours—Billy? It’s so nice of him to drive you.”

A drunken bet isn’t _nice_.

 _Billy_ isn’t nice. He’s not the _raging_ asshole he was when he first moved to Hawkins, but _nice_ isn’t him either.

And Billy meeting his parents—his dad wouldn’t let someone like _Billy_ through the front door. The idea sends Steve hurtling towards the door.

Billy hasn’t been _inside_ Steve’s house again. He doesn’t leave his camaro when he picks Steve up or drops him off and Steve isn’t about to ask and get a big Billy Hargrove _no_ thrown in his face.

Steve’s set on not pushing it.

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” Steve tells her.

His mom just hums then when Steve’s hand is on the doorknob, stops him. Cups his cheek carefully. Her hand is still pink from the hot water, delicate and smells like lotion. She’s watching him, waiting for him to say something because she doesn’t know what to say either.

There’s a part of Steve that thinks maybe she can see under his upcoming math test he’s not at all prepared for and the future he’s even less prepared for and sees his heart jackrabbiting at the sound of the camaro’s engine and the guitar riffs it brings with.

That’s only a _very_ small part, though. The part that’s happy they’re here because there’s nothing more awful than being alone.

Steve fidgets. Unused to this new thing his mom does where she reaches out for him, where she’s home with his dad, and the phone is left in her purse.

She kisses his cheek.

“Have a good day.” She says. Pats his cheek. Licks her thumb and rubs at some spot that isn’t there. Lingers. Steve has her eyes. Big and brown. She wants something and, most importantly, it’s Friday. “I—I like this _you_ better. It’s nice to see you so happy.”

Steve doesn’t have the heart to ask her _how_ she could know that.

 

—

 

The camaro is idling in the driveway and just the sight of it makes Steve want to run towards it. The windows are fogged up from the heat blasting inside. Steve can vaguely make out Max already in the backseat and Billy upfront with one hand on the wheel and his arm over the back of the passenger seat. Billy has his aviators on despite the fog.

Steve _walks_ over to the camaro, coat unzipped and unbuttoned and his bones freezing over, and then, when he’s close enough, he jumps inside quickly to not let any of the heat out.

He sighs happy and long, sinking into his own seat, knees pressed up tight to the dashboard. Billy’s arm hasn’t moved. Steve can feel his jacket on the back of his head, tickling at his hair.

Max is slumped over, so heavily covered in wool the only bit of her Steve can see is her eyes peaking out in between her yellow scarf and red hat. She says a muffled _hey_ to him and flips to the next page of her magazine—a copy of _Spin_ with U2 on the cover. With her mittens on, she crumples the page as she turns it.

Billy’s got his fingerless gloves on, is wearing a powder blue scarf that matches the blue interior of his camaro and pops with the dark leather of his bomber jacket and somehow _all of this combined_ brings out the bright blue of his eyes over the rim of his aviators.

Every morning Billy’s in Steve’s driveway at the same time. Never later. Never sooner. On the _dot_ and Steve keeps himself in check, doesn’t go running out the door right away, being _eager_ seems to be what bites him in the ass usually.

He clings and he refuses to cling this time. He’s going to play it cool because he _is_ cool.

So he says, _very cooly_ , “hey.”

And Billy says, with a half-smile, “‘sup, Harrington.”

 _Very cool_ , that’s Billy Hargrove. Steve used to be like that. He thinks he was before Nancy and the kids and the whole monster thing.

 _Hey._ Lame. He could do better. What is wrong with him?

Billy says _heya, Harrington_ on some days and _what’s up, mi amigo_ on others with a genuine _crinkle in his eyes_ smile, which means Steve’s got an entire day ahead of him wishing he was back in the camaro and counting down the minutes until he is.

That smile Billy sends him when he gets into the car though—it’s not awkward, like Steve had thought it would be. The _what ifs_ and the _might’ve’s_ pile up on Steve if he isn’t careful.

Right now, he takes what Billy’s offering. A smile and a _good morning_ said in his own, special brand.

Steve looks out the window, at his reflection, and sees his mom waving through the front window. In her _bathrobe_.

“Is that your mom, Steve? She’s really pretty, wow.” Max says, muffled by her scarf. She has her nose pressed to the window.

Steve tenses, horrified. He limply waves back.

Every guy who’s ever seen his mom has the same reaction. Mainly, they talk about her—Steve shudders— _chest_. Most of Steve’s fights during elementary school were because some punk had something he wanted to do to his mom. Tommy would back him up in those fights.

Steve can’t remember when he even met Tommy. He’d always known him. The two of them were connected at the hip since forever. Anything anyone said about Steve’s mom, Tommy would be just as quick to throw a punch as Steve.

And now Tommy doesn’t talk to him or look at him and Steve should be happy about it and he definitely is totally happy about it, really.

_Really._

“Well, shit, Harrington.” Billy cranes his neck to look passed Steve to the front door. He whistles and waves back too.

Steve readies himself to sock Billy in the arm, already dying slowly and steadily inside imagining all the horrible things Billy could say describing her. He’s pretty sure he’s heard the worst, but Billy can be creative when it comes to being gross and obnoxious and, generally, the worst.

But all Billy says is, “no wonder you’re so goddamn pretty.”

Steve whips his head around to stare at him and there’s definitely something coming across from _how_ he’s staring because Billy’s grin slips, like he’s been caught, and then he’s changing gears and slamming the gas pedal hard.

 

—

 

They’re parked outside the Fair Mart. Max ran inside to buy something mysterious. She refuses to tell Billy what exactly it is she’s getting, but she swears she _needs it_ and that Billy can _mind his own damn business_.

Billy hadn’t liked that by the glare he sent her through the rearview mirror while driving a twisting road at fifty-five miles per hour.

“What’s the rule?” Billy says. He popped the seat back as soon as he put the car in park and is watching Steve eat Cheerios by the handful.

Steve offered him some. Billy’s disgust was unnecessary.

“No food?” Steve says with a mouthful of food.

Billy’s lip curls up at the corner. It’s a baby snarl. One that says Steve is on thin ice and it’s going to break sooner than either one of them realizes.

“And what are you doing right now?”

Steve hums, pretending to think and think a little bit more. Waits to finish chewing before he says, “sitting in a car. Waiting for Max. Talking to you.”

“Oh my god.” Billy pushes up his aviators to rub his entire face. Steve laughs and nearly chokes on a round, particularly stubborn Cheerio.

Billy slaps his back and gets him breathing again. His hand stays there in between his shoulders. Steve busies himself with eating another, slightly smaller, handful.

“You saved my life—“ Steve shakes the box at him and Billy stares him down, “—have some. Eat some. There’s plenty and they’re sort of tasty.”

Billy sighs and shoves his hand in, gets a few and pops them into his mouth. Steve is coming out on top today. Who cares about what’s going to happen after graduation or that his dad shaved his mustache or that his mom isn’t on her phone even half the time she used to be.

“Yum.” Billy says. He licks his lip. “Don’t you need a can of spaghetti to mix those with?”

Steve snorts. “Cheerios get soggy in like two seconds, they’d fall apart and then what’s the point of anything ever? And it’s _spaghettios.”_

“Damn.” Billy says blandly. “My bad.”

“It really is.”

Max is knocking on the window with no shopping bag and after a bit of shuffling around, they’re back on track to going to school.

Steve offers the box of Cheerios to Max and, unlike her awful brother, she happily starts to munch.

 

—

 

It’s taken two weeks, but Steve’s picked up on a few of the Hargrove and Mayfield tics.

Max is only quiet on the rides _to_ school. She’s not at all happy about being shoved into the backseat thanks to Steve and his dumb long legs. Is downright moping about not being able to ride her new skateboard now that the ground’s getting icy. That Billy is a headbanger whose _good vibrations_ music is Metallica. The volume of any music in the camaro is always _just_ loud enough to wake him up in the morning and give his eardrums a beating in the afternoon.

And somehow, brothers and sisters—even step ones who only seem to ever glare and argue and ignore each other’s existence—make him wish his parents had thought to pop out another one to give him to argue with or have any sort of connection to.

His parents could ignore both him and his imaginary sibling. Steve wouldn’t ignore his what-if brother or sister.

Tommy’s freckled face pops into his head. Smarmy shithead mouth breather.

Steve focuses on literally anything else.

 

—

 

Billy’s kept his word.

Mostly.

Something vaguely like Metallica or Slayer or Samhain or any of the other bands Steve has stumbled into learning exist thanks to Billy Hargrove is playing on the stereo when Steve presents what he wants to play for the rest of the car ride to school.

“I’m gonna toss your ass to the curb.” Billy tells him, disgusted—actually had to pull over to tell Steve what he thinks of The Beatles when Steve presents the cassette he wants to listen to—The Yellow Submarine.

Billy has his limits and Steve’s spent every morning so far seeing where Billy’s line was, which band would be the one to push Billy to say _not a chance_.

Wham! was too obvious. Cyndie Lauper hadn’t done it. Madonna had gotten actual finger tapping. The Bangles had only gotten Steve a _what is wrong with you_ look.

It feels like he’s won.

He’s gonna plant his flag on the roof of the camaro and call it victory. They’ll pledge allegiance to the Yellow Submarine every morning. Billy will hate it so much. Steve will never be happier.

Billy shoves the tape back till the tape and Steve’s hand that’s holding the tape are pressed against his chest and his back is smushed into the car seat. Billy pats Steve’s hand firmly twice.

“Not happening, bucko.”

“Okay, but what about yes?“

“Nope. _Not happening._ Never gonna happen. If that tape _touches_ my deck I’m gonna throw it out the window and the fuckin’ redneck bears can shit on it.”

Steve’s shoves the tape back into his backpack and looks through his other cassettes.

“Hold on to your ridiculous pants, Hargrove.” Steve holds up a tape with a grin. “I brought the Joelster.”

“If that’s a thing I’m gonna drive into a wall.” Billy says. “And what in the _flying fuck_ is your deal with Billy Joel?”

“Piano Man’s a classic, so what’s your deal Billy _I don’t like anything that doesn’t involve screaming_ Hargrove? He’s Billy Joel. His face should be on the ten dollar bill.” Steve says then shoves the tape closer to Billy’s face, enjoying how he tries to lean away. If they crash, it’s full Billy’s fault.

_Who doesn’t like Billy Joel?_

Billy’s starting to smile. Another victory. Steve is finally getting ahead on the scoreboard of his life.

“You have serious issues.” Billy says.

“There’s literally a song with your name in it—tell me you don’t want to listen to it?”

“Do you wanna listen to every song with your name in it?”

“What song has the name _Steve_ in it, ‘cause I would _love_ to hear it.”

Billy goes blank and Steve watches him think, running through discographies of bands Steve’s never heard of. Maybe he's managed to stump him. Honestly, Steve's on the cusp of feeling proud of himself.

Billy slaps the wheel, grinning and Steve finds himself grinning too. “Grateful Dead.”

Max says, “that’s _Stephen_ , not Steve.”

“Same thing.”

 _Same thing_ , Max repeats, mocking Billy. “Is it _Steve_ or _Stephen_ , Steve?”

“It’s definitely Steve. You forget my name, Hargrove? I’m Steve. Steve Harrington. Sometimes I go by the name _King Steve_ if you really want to be a pain in the ass.”

“Jesus, _I get it_ and I still don’t want to listen to to your shitty music.”

“But, like, honestly, tell me—“

Billy puts his hand over the cassette in Steve’s hand, holding him from inching towards the deck and Steve’s not going to lie and say something doesn’t flutter around inside him.

“— _King Steve,_ I don’t want to listen to your fuckin’ cowboy music.”

Steve holds up his finger. “So you _have_ heard it before.”

“And I’m not gonna hear it again.”

“Only assholes don’t like Billy Joel, Hargrove.”

“Steve,” Max cuts in, sounding tired. “Please.”

“Shut it, Maxine.” Billy says. “And I _am_ an asshole, Harrington. Where’ve you been?”

“Well. Fine, be an asshole.” Steve says. He crosses his arms. “If you’re not gonna play my music, then I dare you to not play Slayer right now.”

Billy cranks the volume up till Steve _barely_ hears Max groaning _oh my god you guys suck so hard_ from the back. “ _This_ isn’t Slayer.”

“ _Whatever_ , I dare you to, like, just—“ any of his tapes would be _too_ easy, the challenge is where the fun is at, “—turn the radio on. The local station only.”

“You really wanna start daring me on this shit?”

“Right now, yes.”

Max pipes up, “I’m with Steve on this one.”

Billy’s got his eyes set on Steve when he says, “Max, you don’t matter.”

Steve can’t imagine what it’s like for the two of them on Christmas.

He pokes Billy in the chest with two fingers, right below where he knows his golden pendant is underneath his jacket, emphasizing every word with a jab.

“I. double. dog. dare. you. mother. fucker.”

Max _oooo’s_.

Billy tells him, seriously, as though Steve has never dared him to do something _so dumb_ and the jello incident on Monday never happened, “there’s no going back, you know that, right?”

“I’ll triple it if you think I’m kidding.” Steve flicks him in the chest, enjoying how Billy will let him in this close and will let him flick at his jacket and at his chest with nothing more than a a thick eyebrow that just keeps climbing higher and a twitch to his lips that says Steve can _totally_ flick him again.

When Billy rolls his eyes, telling Steve without any words how _painful_ it is to breathe the same air as Max—such an amazingly, wonderfully, dumb, dramatic reaction from Billy—Steve has to laugh. He has to. There’s no holding it back. If he has to go to school and if he has to work for his dad, he’s going to laugh until he can’t anymore.

Being in the small powder blue quarters of the camaro Steve is part of the Hargrove and Mayfield morning duo and just by being there, laughing and only sometimes managing to turn the volume down before Billy catches him, he turns it into a trio.

Billy snorts, but he pops the tape out, turns on the radio, and shifts the car into drive. It’s staticky with all the trees and tuning to the right station takes more focus than a guy driving should spare, eventually he lands on the local Hawkins station.

The Newbeats are on. They’re _always_ on. If it wasn’t for _every horrifying thing ever_ Hawkins would be the most reliably boring place on Earth.

Steve sings along, dances as best as he can while he’s sitting, makes sure to slap at the dashboard and shake Billy’s shoulder with the _classic_ beat. Turns the volume up. Tries to be as upbeat and ridiculous as he can be.

He knows every word by heart. He _does_ like bread and butter. And he fucking _loves_ toast and jam.

Billy slinks down in his seat, holding his head, wincing, then—Steve catches it—he’s laughing and screwing his lips shut to keep from laughing.

This is _nice_. Different and new. His nail bat is back at home, upstairs in his closet, and he’s okay without it. _He is_.

“We’re gonna be late if anyone cares or anything.” Max says. She kicks the back of Billy’s seat.

Billy reaches behind him, swats at her leg without looking—his glare at Steve turns, rapidly, into _I’m gonna murder a redhead, you better back me up on my cover story_.

Max reacts too fast, pulling her legs up and away from Billy’s reach, just in time to avoid the hit. She laughs, mutters out _too slow_.

Billy grabs the box of Cheerios from Steve and empties it out on her.

 

—

 

In the Hawkins High parking lot Max runs off in a huff with little bits of cereal in her hair and all over her coat. She flips them both off, though Steve is gonna go out on a limb and say it’s meant more for _Billy_ than him.

The cereal dust at the bottom of a box of Cheerios gets in your eyes and _sticks_. Not something Steve would’ve thought he’d ever know from experience, but this year has plenty of new things he’s trying that he didn’t think he ever would.

Like, getting cheated on sucks a lot and being _normal_ is never gonna be a _thing_ for him and yet Billy Hargrove is somehow, apparently, an actual _thing_ for him and surprisingly he does like Metallica it turns out and Cheerios are really, stupidly good at getting into every nook of a camaro’s interior.

Billy brushes the seats off and leaves the floor of the camaro to Steve. He leans against the car, arm on the roof and hip cocked out, watching Steve do most of the work since it was _Steve’s_ Cheerios so that means it was _Steve’s_ fault.

Steve is kneeling on the backseat, bent over while he scoops cereal out the door and onto the asphalt.

Billy points to ones Steve misses. Steve lobs the ones Billy points at _at_ him. Billy swats them away, but twice Steve gets him in the head and Billy has to pick them out of his hair.

Billy doesn’t try to hide the way he’s smirking, entertained and enjoying the hell out of making Steve scrounge around his car, so Steve does the only thing he can that isn’t just walking away—he’d rather pick Cheerios out of every car in the parking lot then go to class—he sings _Piano Man,_ half laughing when Billy makes it obvious he’s starting to crack.

“It’s clean enough, jesus christ, Harrington.” Billy says, snapping in half, about ready to strangle Steve with his scarf.

Billy’s face is red.

 

—

 

They share a cigarette against the camaro in the mornings before class.

The parking lot is full while everyone heads inside. Jonathan’s LTD is parked two lines over, steam still rising from the hood. Steve looks away, quick. The ache is there, but it doesn’t drag him to the ground, pinning him there anymore.

Billy checks his watch once. Steve hasn’t looked at his since he left his house. Their arms are pressed together. Through leather and nylon and wool, Billy’s warm beside him. The bell might never ring.

“Why the fuck’s it so cold here, Harrington?” Billy says. He shoves his hands into his pockets. Steve takes the cigarette out of his mouth for a puff of it, taking notice of the wet end.

Miriam Castellano walks by in her tight high-rise jeans with Ricky Shannon’s arm around her waist.

She notices Billy then Steve at the same time Steve notices her. She flips her hair and looks back at them. Glare hot enough to melt the Arctic.

She pops her gum at him.

As far as Steve can tell, Miriam Castellano and her cherry red lips haven’t gotten to hang off Billy’s arm for weeks. Two weeks. Not since Steve’s claimed a spot for himself in the camaro.

Steve blows the smoke out of his mouth. He hasn’t quite gotten the hang of making a smoke ring. _It’s all in the tongue_ has kept him up at night for reasons that have nothing to do with monsters that like to creep around in the dark.

Billy doesn’t notice her. He plucks the cigarette out of Steve’s mouth to finish it off. Flicks the stub onto the ground.

“This isn’t even _that_ cold. It’s not even snowing yet.” Steve says. “Probably all warm and beachy in California right now, huh? With, like, the sun out and everything not slowly freezing over.”

“ _Snow._ Fuck that.” Billy shudders. He side-steps any mention of California. He circles the camaro once and taps the right front tire with the toe of his boot. “I’m gonna have to put chains on soon.”

“You want some help?”

Billy looks at him funny. _Steve is ridiculous,_ that’s what that looks says. Silly, dumb, ridiculous Steve in his silly, dumb, unflattering, ridiculous winter coat.

Winter’s the pits. There’s no upside, just cold and frumpy clothes that do everything wrong for him. At least summer lets Steve wear shorts and a tank top. Humidity’s balls, but he’s rockin’ it.

“Help with what?” Billy says. He starts walking.

Steve’s face heats up. He bumps shoulders with Billy. Speeds up to start walking backwards in front of him.

“The camaro?”

Again, he makes a face. Steve makes one back at him.

“Why?”

“Because I’m very helpful.”

“Uh huh,” Billy shakes his head and smiles at Steve, “I’d have to teach you what tires are first and then it’d be spring.”

“Tires? _Tires?_ Are those the—“ Steve makes a circle with his finger, “—the round thingies that make the car go vroom-vroom?”

Billy huffs, a quiet sort of laugh that’s soft and closer to a snicker, but nice without any hints of the old Billy Hargrove snarl that came with blood and busted knuckles.

Steve bumps into what turns out to be the back of a green Subaru.

“Shit, Harrington.” Billy says and catches him by the arm, helps straighten him out and Steve lets him manhandle him back onto his feet. Billy puts his arm around Steve’s shoulder, hooks him around his neck to tug him in close before letting him go. He claps Steve on the back.

“Whoever said you were all looks and no brain was a damn idiot.” Billy tells him then adds quietly after a few steps. “Yeah, if you want to, I guess.”

They collide again, shoulder to shoulder. The school looms closer and closer and Steve’s heart picks up, the anxiety comes crawling back from where it was hiding to itch at him all over. He doesn’t want to go in and go to class and work for his dad or go to college.

He wants to stay outside in the parking lot, leaning on a powder blue camaro and looking into brighter, bluer eyes.

At the entrance doors he stops with his hand on the door’s handle.

“You all right there, Harrington?” Billy says.

Steve does what he has to do. He shakes his head and makes himself smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

—

 

Every class lasts for an eternity, turning seconds into minutes and minutes into hours that will just not end. They just won’t.

Steve hasn’t taken any notes, figures if anything the teachers said mattered they wouldn’t wait till the last day before break.

Instead, he pretends he’s paying attention by scribbling circles on the margins of his notebook, a boxy BMW, a camaro with its windows rolled down. With every class he feels more and more restless and he tries not to outright stare at the clock on the wall hanging over the blackboards in every room. He has to twist his watch around so the face is on his wrist, down on the desk and away from him.

His leg is jumping. Both his legs are jumping and shaking his desk and he has to force both his feet to be flat on the floor.

Settling down is _difficult_.

By the time English rolls around he’s filled up three pages of his notebook to keep himself from laying his head on his desk and calling it quits.

Mrs. Cobb doesn’t give them a free day or a softball lesson. She acts like they won’t be seeing each other for the next two years then gives them an assignment that says she knows they’ll have nothing better to do than do homework.

He pulls out Billy’s earring from his pocket. Twists it around between his fingers. Rubs at the gold backing. The small diamond looks as real as any of the ones from his mom’s jewelry. He huddles over it, keeping it hidden from the other students.

No one else would recognize it. It’s just a stud earring. That’s all it is. _Nothing special._

Steve slips it back into his pocket. Looks out the window. At the clock. He taps at his wristband, tempted to spin his watch back around to see the time. Maybe the school clocks are off.

A tightly folded piece of paper folded in the shape of a heart slides onto his desk.

Stacy McKenzie is sitting to his right. Her jacket’s hanging off the back of her chair. She’s leaning forward and even though it’s winter and the heater at school isn’t all that great, she’s wearing a jean skirt and her shirt is unbuttoned way, _way_ down. There’s a slip of her bra showing.

It’s pink.

There’s definitely lace.

Steve stares too long at her chest. Get’s a little lost in between her tits. They look soft. He winces when he catches himself. It’s not great. He should be better than to ogle outright. He used to be. Or maybe he wasn’t.

There’d been plenty of times Nancy’s given him a little slap on the arm when she caught him staring at her.

McKenzie smiles though. Brushes her brown hair behind her ear and curls a lock around her finger. She wants him to look at her, he thinks and Steve realizes, watching her smile at him, bat her eyes at him, bite her lip at him, that _this_ has been the longest he’s ever been single.

He hasn’t had sex in _months._

McKenzie leans back and Steve gets to see even _more_ or her bra, but then there’s Carol sitting to the right of McKenzie, staring at him. Bug eyed. Like she’s never blinked before or passed a note in class once in her life.

“ _Jesus._ ” Steve says. Out loud. Quickly, he coughs to cover it up, looking around, but Mrs. Cobb keeps talking and the rest of the class hasn’t cared what ole King Steve has been up to since forever.

McKenzie giggles.

Carols glares at him.

She hasn’t spoken to him for weeks. Not since Billy started being his ride and Tommy decided he wasn’t even worth harassing anymore.

Steve unfolds the note gingerly.

 

> Stevie,
> 
> Tommy’s going to start a fight with you during practice. Just a heads up.
> 
> Yours truly, 
> 
> Carol <3! XOXOXO!

He reads it twice. Tries to wrap his head around it and _fails_ then turns to Carol who—apparently—hasn’t taken her eyes off him at all and seems to be edging her way to sitting on McKenzie’s desk.

Steve mouths _what the fuck?_ at her.

Carol writes another note. Her hair bounces when she writes. Something Steve’s never noticed before. He’s can’t remember ever watching her write, really. She’s dyed her hair blonde like Madonna.

McKenzie leans back onto her desk and there’s her chest and she’s smiling again and Steve smiles back. It’s only polite and Steve _is_ polite. She touches the collar of her shirt and Steve checks out her bra and her tits for too long and he’s stuck in some loop that surprisingly kind of sucks.

She’s got a nice thing going on. She _really_ does. But Steve—he’s got other things on his mind.

McKenzie slips Steve Carol’s notes and she makes sure to touch Steve’s hand as much as possible on the hand off when she does.

The three of them go back and forth like this for the next twenty minutes. Carol getting more hectic. Steve getting more confused. McKenzie getting a little more handsy each time she passes a note with a bite to her lip and eyes that are telling Steve to ask her out after class and not judge her when she wants to fuck in the restroom at the pharmacy.

Twenty minutes and he has a big stack of crumpled up paper on his desk.

_Tommy’s pissed. Tommy wants a fight. Tommy wants to punch you in the face. Tommy won’t stop bitching about you. Tommy is being super annoying. I’m gonna dump Tommy and you better go out with me ‘cause I’m not about to graduate single._

“Mr. Harrington?” Mrs. Cobb says. She’s standing next to his desk, hands folded in front of her, long grey hair braided over her shoulder and since she’s already taller than Steve when he’s standing, she towers over him now. Steve can feel himself shrinking.

The class starts to laugh. She holds out her hand for his stack of intel.

Steve puts his arm over the stack, trying to stall. He’s going to give in, but maybe she’ll change her mind first.

“I don’t think you’ll like any of this.” He says then gives his best _please be nice to me_ look.

“Mr. Harrington. _Steve._ Nothing you have on those papers is going to shock me. I went to Woodstock. I’ve seen it all. Now, if you’d please?”

Reluctantly he hands over the stack. She reads through the first one then flips through the rest. One grey eyebrow raising just as steadily as Steve sinks into his seat, chin nearly hitting the wood of his desk.

He reminds himself he’s a senior and this, like a lot of other things, doesn’t matter. Disappointing Mrs. Cobb still makes him feel like the worst.

“I think I’ll end class a little early.” Mrs. Cobb says, folding the papers and _keeping them_. “Steve, Carol, I’d like to have a quick word.”

Carol shoots him this huffy _melt his bones_ glare and Steve knows Carol’s going to jump him as soon as he steps foot out of the classroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm attempting to write shorter chapters, as you can see, that's going well.
> 
> Title from "How You Gonna Stop It?" by Mating Ritual
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com) and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/cannibear)


	2. “Hold on to your ridiculous pants, Hargrove.” [2/6]

According to Mrs. Cobb _violence does not belong in a friendship_.

Steve nods. Agrees with her with all his heart as it’s the easiest route to the end of this conversation and stares at the clock every time Mrs. Cobb shifts her attention to Carol.

Lunch is ticking by. What Mrs. Cobb is telling him is as much bullshit as Steve tends to be and is being right now.

He acts the part of _sorry_ , even feels it, but not for the reason Mrs. Cobb may think. He’s wasting her time and her words are rolling off him swiftly and without any impact. _Violence_ and _friendship_ —does she not know what town she’s been living in for the past century?

She doesn’t get it. Fighting is _one of those things_ he and Tommy have shared since the beginning.

They fight.

Steve knocks some of Tommy’s baby teeth out and Tommy buys them both gum-balls from the pharmacy with the quarters he finds under his pillow. Tommy sprains Steve’s wrist and Tommy does Steve’s homework for the two and a half weeks it takes to heal.

It’s what they’ve always done. They shove each other to the ground and help each other back up.

Except Tommy’s never planned it. Weeks of getting the cold shoulder don’t go by and then a fight just _happens._

Steve tunes out most of the lecture.

Carol’s notes. Tommy’s red face the last time they actually talked on the bleachers.

Neither Steve or Tommy have ever been great at telling the other to _fuck off_ then actually following through with it.

Mrs. Cobb is serious and she cares too much and she’s putting too many eggs in Steve’s basket when she asks both of them, _what do you want your future to be?_

She doesn’t just memorize their names and remember the troublesome ones and the favorites who gets A’s on every assignment. She believes in him and in Carol. Mrs. Cobb wants what’s best for both of them.

Steve wishes she had asked this at the beginning of the year when he was more sure of himself and where he was going. He’d have an answer for her and not just an awkward laugh that’s pushed out by the sheer panic of not being certain of anything anymore.

 

—

 

Carol grabs Steve by the arm and leads him out of the classroom, down the hallway, down another, to the water fountain that leaks and goes from cold to boiling in under a second. People know better than to use it—it had taken Steve until he was halfway through his freshman year to realize that. It’s good spot for a quick conversation.

Steve hopes it’s quick, at least.

When Carol turns around her hair whips Steve across the face. He’s hit with the strong scent of her hairspray and perfume, making his eyes water and his tongue curl up.

He expects to be yelled at and generally berated for a good five minutes. He doesn’t expect to see Carol worrying at her lip.

“What—“ He starts to say, but Carol shushes him. Tells him to shut up with the tacked on glare.

She glances up and down the hallway, checking to see if anyone is paying them any attention or eavesdropping. With class let out early, the lecture included, not many people are lingering by their lockers yet.

The salty scent of hundreds—thousands, _hopefully_ —of tater tots wafts down the hallway from the cafeteria to Steve and his empty, growling stomach.

Billy’s probably hungry too. He thinks about walking away, if Carol will care enough to follow him. He’d definitely care if she did. It’s hard to shake her off, she has a skill for tracking a person down and not letting them go until she’s gotten what she wanted.

McKenzie is at her locker and she’s looking at Steve from underneath the fringe of her hair. She sweeps it aside. Tucks some behind her ear. Waves at him.

Steve gathers up what’s left of that old, past Steve who was good at this kind of thing and nods at her. _Yes, I see you. Please, don’t come over here and talk to me. Carol will eat you alive._

McKenzie smiles at him _again_.

“She totally wants your dick.” Carol says. Killing any chance Steve is ever going to smile at McKenzie or anyone else for at least the next half-hour. Or at all ever again.

“ _Please_ don’t talk about my crotch.”

“I was talking about McKenzie and her mouth, but, like, _okay_. Whatever. Be like that I guess?” Carol says. She pokes Steve in the middle of his chest, her long nail digs in through his jacket and shirt. “Okay, so. I know Tommy’s been sort of a giant d-bag lately, and, like, I _get_ that you guys are all pissed at each other or what-the-fuck-ever, I don’t actually care why.“

Steve rubs at the spot where she jabbed him. “He’s the one mad at _me_ and I just don’t want to deal with his—his dumb bullshit drama.”

Carol stares him down, rising on her tip toes to look him even more in the eye than he could ever want her to. Her binder is squeezed tight to her chest. The vibe’s too intense. Steve’s about to start running.

Then her feet are flat on the floor. Those extra few inches between them lets Steve breathe again.

“Drama?” Carol says.

“Yeah. _Drama._ ”

The bell rings. Classroom doors burst open and a flood of students quickly begins to clog up the hallway. One stampede headed in the direction of the cafeteria. The other towards the parking lot.

Billy’s likely on his way towards Steve’s locker right now. An itch to start moving, to not keep Billy waiting has him checking his watch, shifting on his feet, ready to escape and find refuge.

When it comes to Carol, Steve’s unsure what to do. They’ve never talked all that much with just the two of them without Tommy there. When they did, she did most of the talking while Steve was the wall her words bounced off of, never expecting a meaningful reply, just to be there and listen to whatever she said and agree.

They’ve had sex back when he and Tommy did everything together. They’re friends when Tommy’s with them. Without him, Steve’s left wondering.

Mostly, he just wants to leave.

Whatever Tommy’s problem is, Steve can handle it with or without Carol giving him the breakdown of _what is definitely going to be_ a very dumb situation.

A hand on Carol’s shoulder, Steve moves them both closer to the wall, out of the way of the crowd. The water fountain a thankfully solid, immovable, unscarable buffer between him and Carol.

“Drama.” Carol repeats. Blinking her eyes wide, unbelieving. “That’s like saying you _don’t_ have dumb shit and that’s one hundred and twenty thousand percent _not true_ , Steve. You have _at least_ , “ she looks him up and down, “six entire feet of dumb shit going on at all times.”

“Will you just.” Steve says. Snaps his mouth shut. Closes his eyes. Holds his hands up, fingers spread out. The tater tots will be gone or the only ones left will be soggy and Billy will refuse to go to the cafeteria at all anyways because _it’s not cool_. “Why—what’s his beef with me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I haven’t talked to him in literally forever and it’s not like he was all that mad—not madder than, like, he usually is or anything.”

“I don’t know!” Carol yells, nearly throwing her binder up in the air. A few people—students and teachers—stop to stare at them. “ _I don’t know_. He’s been bitching about you and Billy and _I don’t get it_ and, I just, like, I don’t know what his deal is anymore.”

A kid—who can only be a freshman—comes up and tries to use the water fountain. He makes it as far as putting his right hand on the spout before Carol’s inches from his face.

“We’re having a _private_ conversation so will you please respect our _privacy_ and mind your own fucking business, you little twerp _bitch._ ”

First years spook easy and when it’s _Carol_ , the kid’s shaking in his boots, a second away from pissing himself.

The kid bolts.

“ _Jesus christ, Carol._ ” Steve hisses. He rubs at his head.

“Rude assholes. All of them. Literally every man—a giant asshole.” Carol says.

For her, freshman aren’t people. Anyone who isn’t in her clique isn’t a person. She’d been horrible to Nancy the entire time they’d dated. She’d been horrible to Steve too.

Carol glares at the back of the kid’s head and then turns that glare onto Steve since Steve, of course, deserves it the most.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder. Straightens her shirt. Runs her thumb around her lips to clean off any stray lip gloss— _strawberry_ , she always wears strawberry. Stressed out and irritated, she fidgets with every part of herself.

“Could you—for me or _whatever_ —“ Carol stops. Her irritation at Steve and Tommy and the freshman melts away. She’s back to worrying at her lips again and looks as close to begging as she will ever get. “Could you please go easy on him?”

Steve almost falls for it.

“Why should I?”

“Because we’re _friends_.”

“Are we?”

Carol’s mouth drops open. “Yeah. We are. All three of us. Do you think we’re not?”

“I don’t know.”

“ _We are_.”

Steve stumbles on, some hurdles he just can’t bother with right now. “It’s not like I _want_ to fight him.”

“Then tell him that.”

“Okay?” Steve says. “How do I know you’re not just—just trying to, like, throw me off or something? Maybe you’re just stirring shit up and Tommy’s as clueless as I am.”

“Why would I do that to you?”

“I don’t know, why do you do any of the shitty things you do, Carol?”

Carol purses her lips. Somehow, even her hair is standing on end, offended. “Because you’re so perfect, right? Date one goodie two shoes bitch who _cheated on you_ and suddenly you’re better than us.”

“No, Carol. It’s because at least I know when I’m being shitty.” Steve says, pointing to his chest. “I grew up. You guys didn’t. That’s the difference.”

“Look, Steve.” Carol says. She shakes her head, puts a hand on the front of her binder. “I don’t care, okay? Whatever. I don’t give a shit about whatever BS Nancy Wheeler fed you. This is _Tommy_. I know you guys aren’t exactly close or really _friendly_ right now, but I’m just—I love him. I really love him and I don’t want him to get himself hurt ‘cause he’s a fucking moron.”

“Then he shouldn’t be making dumbass plans. What the fuck is that?”

“That’s what I told him, but you know how he gets all worked up.” Carol’s mouth twists. She starts to blink _a lot_ and quickly. Her bottom lips starts to wobble and Steve freezes. “It’s so fucking annoying, you know? First you leave then you take Billy with you and now? What? Tommy’s leaving too? Who do I have left?”

“Carol.” Steve says, sighing.

“Really, really annoying.”

“I don’t actually want to get in a fight with him. I’m not _mad_ at him or anything. Not right now.“ Steve struggles to stay distant. “He’s just bullshitting, right?”

Carol shakes her head. “He’s really pissed.”

“If he comes at me—“

“—Just tell him to quit it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that works.” Steve rolls his eyes. When Tommy’s worked up, the only way to get him to back down and chill is to _make_ him.

Picturing Tommy’s red face, all geared up to slug Steve in the face—

Steve laughs. Out loud. A literal _bark_. The entire _thing_ is ridiculous. Tommy’s nothing compared to literally _anything_ from the Upside Down.

Carol gapes at him. Quickly, he covers his mouth.

“Did you just—are you _laughing?_ ”

“No?”

“This is _serious_.”

“I know—I’m being very serious. Totally.”

“Ugh.” Carol says. “You’re just as bad as he is.”

She huffs, wipes at the bottom of her eyes with her pinky, getting a bit of wet mascara on her finger. Steps away from the fountain and Steve and turns to join the crowd heading towards the parking lot or maybe the girl’s restroom on the way.

“Wait.” Steve calls out. Guilt eats him up. Whether they’re real tears or not, Steve never could stand to see a girl cry. “I—I like what you did with your hair. It’s really pretty. Madonna would totally hate you.”

Her smile is watery, but her steps are awfully perky when she walks away.

 

—

 

Any thought of _Carol’s just making shit up again_ is squashed when four kids from Mrs. Cobb’s class tell him _good luck_. One makes Steve high-five him and calls him _King Steve_ , something no one other than Billy has called him in months. He sort of hates it a lot and shuffles away from all the positive energy, uncomfortable with that kind of moral support off the court.

There’s a tightness growing in the back of Steve’s neck, heating up his head and making it hard to hear much of anything or even look left or right.

Tommy’s out to get him. Carol’s telling the truth.

All Steve wants to do is find Billy and eat some salty potatoes or have a smoke outside and listen to some metal music he can’t understand the lyrics to.

Billy doesn’t eat lunch in the cafeteria. His lunch is a cigarette outside by the camaro, listening to one of his cassettes on the speakers and ignoring that he’s in Hawkins. No sack lunch or anything. He doesn’t seem to eat unless Steve gets an arm over his shoulders and physically leads him inside or just shoves some food in his face.

Whether it’s money or a weird habit from California—Steve’s got no clue. All he knows is he likes when Billy folds and tells Steve to _fuck off to hell_ before he eats whatever Steve’s put in front of him.

Steve shoves his binder into his locker. Billy’s not there, leaning against the wall with a smirk on his lips or a distaste for having to be in Indiana making him glare at anyone who passes by who makes the mistake of looking Billy in the eye.

Except for Steve. He gets those baby blues to himself most days.

The hallway on either end tell him Billy’s not making his way over here. The disappointment is nearly crushing. He’s too used to Billy being there, even after only a few weeks of it.

Steve’s just being ridiculous. Billy can do what he wants so Steve sets out to find him and drag him into the cafeteria where there are tater tots waiting for the both of them.

Mrs. Cobb pops her head out of the teacher’s lounge.

Steve freezes mid-step when she spots him and is left with his head spinning, his worlds crushed together when she hands him a paperback book with both hands and asks, _would you be so kind as to give this to Billy for me next time you see him?_

She’s lost her head. _The holidays._ She laughs warmly and looks at him as though he’s never disappointed her, not today, _not ever in his life_.

Steve takes the book from her with both hands, holding it carefully.

She claps and says, _thank you_ and _good luck with your friend_ and _I know you’ll do the right thing_. Steve can see the red and green Christmas lights in the brightness of her smile.

Mrs. Cobb had said _Billy_. Not _Mr. Hargrove_. Steve tries to picture Billy in any classroom and can only imagine him with his feet on the desk throwing pencils at the teachers and somehow still getting A’s.

There’s a man in a black cloak and mask on the cover. The binding is creased. There’s no sticker from the library. _The Shadow of the Torturer._

The title is iffy and weird and Steve can’t quite imagine Mrs. Cobb—the sweet old woman with fresh flowers in her hair who bakes cookies for her students and somehow loves all of them despite how shitty every one of them can be—reading _this_ even if she did go to Woodstock.

Steve looks around, checks to see that the door is shut and she’s not watching him from the window. He reads the summary on the back of the book and only becomes more confused.

Definitely something Billy would read. And the kids. Dustin, for sure. Apparently, Mrs. Cobb too, judging by the _Adelaide Cobb_ written in cursive on the inside of the cover. The handwriting is instantly recognizable thanks to all those red marks on Steve’s papers.

He stores the book in his locker, inside his backpack right beside _Sirens of Titan_. Tries to realign the worlds of Mrs. Cobb and Billy in his head where they should be and sets out—again—to find where Billy’s run off to without him.

 

—

 

Vicki Peterson is standing by Billy’s locker, twirling her hair around her finger, looking up and down the hallway for Billy since Billy isn’t there.

Steve’s backing up, bumping into one person after another, muttering out a quick _shit, sorry!_ because he’s so intent to turn around and get out before Vicki notices him and move on to the next place he knows Billy has a good chance of being.

But Vicki notices him like she can see out the back of her head and rushes over with a big grin that’s all the slick cherry red lines of her lips and not a hint of it anywhere else on her face.

She moves in close, smelling like peaches and the freshman year crush Steve had on her, and puts her hand on his arm. Holds up a pink paper note and tells him _make sure Billy gets this, ‘kay?_

And Steve is only as good as he was when he was fourteen and thinking he and Vicki were definitely going to get married so he takes the note and waits until she’s deep in the crowd and has probably already forgotten him to unfold the paper.

It’s her number in purple ink. The zeroes are hearts. There’s a lipstick kiss.

Steve fidgets with it, bends it in a few more places, considers crumpling it up and throwing it away then rethinks it, slips it into his back pocket.

 

—

 

Billy’s not by his camaro either.

Steve puts his hand on the hood of the camaro over the engine. It’s cold and his fingers start to tingle in only a few seconds. The doors are locked. The windows are all rolled up. Steve spots a Cheerio at the foot of the driver’s seat. Billy must have been taking it easy on him to miss that one.

Steve taps his nails against the window, thinking and wallowing.

The tightness on the back of his neck isn’t going away, it’s starting to prickle and make his hair stand on end, telling him _something’s up_. Something has to be wrong.

Miriam Castellano appears behind him. Steve hears her boot heels clicking through the sludge. She traps him between the stinging cold metal side of the camaro and her colder and very unimpressed feelings for him.

She watches him for a long moment, chewing her gum. It’s blue. Probably spearmint. He sniffs the air and smells only exhaust fumes and winter.

She asks _you know where Billy is?_

He tells her with a _nope_ and a shrug that says he really can’t be bothered to care and it’s just a completely understandable coincidence that he’s out here, looking lost and a little put out by the camaro with no Billy Hargrove in sight.

She pops her gum at him.

Stares him down with frigid, green eyes.

Towers over him in a different way than Mrs. Cobb, who’s all warmth and affection he wants to wrap himself up in like the warmest, thickest, motherliest blankets. Miriam Castellano might be the tallest girl in the entire school. Maybe in all of Hawkins.

She keeps staring and Steve’s sweating now. She’s picking at his insides to see if he’s telling the truth, searching through all of his secrets with her professionally manicured claws and finding only the lame ones, not the terrifying ones that make him prowl around his house in the middle of the night with his bat over his shoulder, ready to swing at anything that makes a sound.

He’s not scared. Just preparing for the worst. And the worst can be really, _really_ bad. Miriam Castellano shouldn’t blame him for being _prepared_. That’s how you live through the apocalypse. You get your bat and a group of kids who are all smarter than you and you get through the shit and then pretend like none of it ever happened. Everything’s normal. He’s normal. Hawkins is _normal._

But she does. Lame is all she sees. She’s the popular girl and Billy’s the popular guy. Steve’s a no one now, out on the sidelines trying to keep it together and comb his hair into something decent.

He’s happy on the sidelines. It suits him better. Billy’s the one who shines in the spotlight.

Miriam Castellano smacks her gum one last time and leaves, bored of him. Her long brown hair swaying behind her, heels clicking on the charred remains of Steve’s body she’s finished picking apart.

When she’s back inside the school, Steve sags agains the camaro, the cold from the car bleeding through his clothes and chilling his everything. He counts to ten and by six he’s thinking of his mom and that’s not exactly where he wants to be right now either.

Glancing around the parking lot, there are other students, laughing, getting into their cars to go pick up something to eat from the closest fast food place—McDonald’s.

Steve used to chance KFC, but that would usually leave him with less than five minutes to eat and then he’d have greasy fingers in his next class.

Jonathan’s car is still in the same spot it was earlier.

Steve pats at the earring in his pocket, checking to see if it’s still there or if it ever existed in the first place. Reality can be funny. Steve’s hoarding ten lamps in his room because reality can be so damn hilarious.

He holds the earring in his palm, the sunlight glinting off of it like a tiny, sharp spark.

 _Screw you, Miriam Castellano_ , Steve thinks.

 

—

 

Tommy’s at one of the urinals, humming then singing the theme song to _Happy Days_.

The stalls are empty. Steve’s checked, nudged all three of the doors open with his foot just to make sure. It’s just the two of them in here. The restroom’s usually closed for maintenance in the winter. Pipes that tend to freeze over by the fall.

Out of all the restrooms, this one is the one to go to when you’re looking for a place to sneak in a smoke or get blown by an eager freshman.

Steve settles on sitting against one of the sinks. Crosses his arms to emphasize how unhappy he is with Tommy’s _plan_ and Billy’s disappearance from his school routine. Stares up at the yellowing ceiling. There are spitballs dotting it all over, some older than he is. He can point to the one he’d managed to land up there and stick in the middle of his sophomore year.

It’s a good spot to keep his eyes on while he waits for Tommy to finish pissing.

Tommy’s got a nice singing voice—usually. When they were both little, Tommy’s parents would drag him to church every Sunday. Even made him join the choir. Steve would sneak in to come watch him sing from the back row and then make fun of him afterwards.For the get-up Tommy was forced to wear. For how high his voice could go. All because he couldn’t say _your voice makes me happy_ to Tommy’s face. Boys weren’t nice to each other like that, not when they’re both ten and definitely not now.

So he’d call Tommy a _fairy_ and get socked in the arm rather than try for an actual compliment. It was a lot simpler that way.

Then Tommy had quit choir and stopped singing all together. Steve had felt bad about it for months. He still feels some guilt over it.

Right now, Tommy’s singing off key on purpose. Cracking his voice on the high notes. Going all too low on the dips. Yodeling in the middle. Ignoring Steve while trying to annoy him at the same time.

Steve should tell him to save his breath. Carol’s done the work for him. He’s got plenty of irritation built up from years together, no need to try for shit anymore to get Steve’s head throbbing.

Tommy’s winding down, belting out the final _these happy days are yours and mine, happy days_ and he’s zipping up, wiping his hands on his jeans, making a bee-line for the door. All without once looking Steve’s way.

Steve didn’t follow Tommy just to listen to his piss hit porcelain.

“So what’s the deal?” Steve says. His voice loud in the empty restroom, trying to sound _very_ serious. “Or should I just ask Carol?”

Tommy stops and sighs loud and long enough to turn into a full on groan. He turns to grin at Steve.

“Carol told you, huh?”

“Yeah.” Tommy says nothing. Steve rubs at his face. “ _So?_ That’s it? Nothing to add or?”

“I’ll see you at practice?”

“This is stupid.”

Tommy sucks in his breath, his grin falling, face going red. “Well, you’re stupid.”

“Not stupider than you.”

“I’ve seen every report card you ever got, Steve.” Tommy knocks on his head. “No one’s stupider than you.”

“We get the same grades—oh my _god_. You’re so—“ Steve starts to laugh and only laughs harder when Tommy glares at him. “What is _wrong_ with you? You ignore me and now you’ve got some beef with me and then you get _Carol_ to rat you out? What the absolute fuck is wrong with you?”

Tommy closes up. Everything about how open he usually is—so easy to read—is wiped away. Snapped shut. He’s holding something back.

Tommy stomps over to Steve.

Steve stands up, hands curled at his side. Ready to throw the first punch if that’s what Tommy makes him do. He’ll charge and Steve will knock him off his feet.

“I didn’t tell Carol to tell you shit.” Tommy says, tense and glaring up at Steve.

They’re standing an inch apart. Steve can smell the nicotine on his breath. Can feel the heat of Tommy’s chest on his.

Tommy fists the front of Steve’s shirt.

Snorting in his face is _probably_ not the reaction Tommy was hoping for. Steve can’t help it though. Tommy’s not much compared to the end of the world.

Tommy shows Steve his teeth. Tugs Steve forward, but Steve’s got his feet firmly on the floor. He’s not about to be moved anywhere he doesn’t want to go—especially not by _Tommy_.

“Know why I wanna fight you?” Tommy says.

“Oh, so now you’re gonna answer me?”

Tommy grips his shirt tighter. Their noses are nearly touching. Steve’s eyes are starting to hurt from going cross for so long.

“Your head,” Tommy says slowly, “has been up your own ass since the fifth grade and I’m so fucking done dealing with it.”

Which isn’t what Steve had been expecting.

Off kilter, he says, “what is _that_ supposed to mean.”

Tommy groans, frustrated. He tugs on Steve’s shirt then he’s shoving Steve against the freezing tiles on the wall.

Instinctively, Steve grabs onto Tommy’s shoulders, ready to push him away and take a swing.

“You are so fucking _stupid_.” Tommy spits out, leans up and presses his lips squarely to Steve’s, knocking Steve’s head back against the wall, their teeth clanking together from the force of Tommy’s _lunge_ —it’s a kiss. Tommy’s kissing him.

_Tommy’s kissing him._

He freezes. Unsure what to do.

It’s panic that rises up inside Steve. The cold tiles chill him all the way through, making his body react slow. His head left miles behind, still trying to catch up.

Steve plants his hands flat on Tommy’s chest and shoves him away. Wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand.

Tommy stumbles back, but he catches himself quicker than Steve can manage with the support of the wall.

“What the fuck?” Steve says.

“Just proving a point.” Tommy spits out. Every freckle on him serious. “You’re so fucking stupid, Steve. You know that? So goddamn fucking _stupid_.”

He storms out.

Steve stays where he is. Catches himself in the mirror and stares.

“What in the fuck just happened?” He says to his reflection, who seems to be more blindsided by this than Steve.

 

—

 

Steve rinses his mouth and washes his face off with ice cold water from the sink. The taste of nicotine and _Tommy_ is left in his mouth. Weird. Gross. Lingering. He doesn’t want Tommy on his lips, but he’s stuck on there and he _really doesn’t need this right now._

Steve tries not to think about his chapped lips or the warm exhale from Tommy’s nose when he’d leaned in—he can still feel all of it and none of it is what he wants.

Left in a confused and uncomfortable daze, Steve nearly walks right by Billy.

Backtracking, Steve stares, struck stupid.

Billy’s leaning against the wall talking to Keith nowhere near the usual spots Steve’s accustomed to finding Billy or Billy finding him. He’s just _standing_ there talking to Keith like it’s _normal_ and he couldn’t care less about Steve or Steve looking for him—it’s enough for Steve to shake himself loose of Tommy and his lips and what was _definitely_ a kiss despite everything inside of Steve telling him it couldn’t _possibly_ be.

The sight of Billy talking to anyone—Keith especially—isn’t something he’s used to. Billy’s the popular metalhead who can say _fuck you_ to a guy and the guy will still want to be friends with him. Billy’s new. He’s what every Indiana guy isn’t.

All that golden hair and tan skin. _Blue eyes_. There’s not an inch of him that’s country. Billy’s as much of an alien here as anything from the Upside Down.

Seeing him with _Keith_ though.

Billy and the nerd from the arcade don’t exist in the same world. Neither do Billy and Mrs. Cobb. Billy’s exists on his own far away planet on the west coast.

Billy’s rubbing his head, leaning more onto the lockers. Steve tries to picture what kind of expression he’s making right now— _tired? rolling his eyes? annoyed to be talking to someone who isn’t Steve?_ —and what could he possibly have to talk about with _Keith_ —

Steve slams on the brakes.

Dumb and ridiculous. He’s been thrown off thanks to Tommy. The world is, without a doubt, out to fuck him over.

Billy doesn’t know Steve’s gone looking for him like some schmuck or that he’s found him and Steve’s winding himself up. Thinking and more thinking and none of it’s done him any good anyways.

Steve picks his pace back up from the school’s floor and then he’s slinging his arm around Billy’s neck, the one inch difference in their heights coming in handy to pull Billy in and muss up his hair all at once, getting back at him for disappearing and leaving Steve in the lurch to talk to _Keith_.

Billy’s curls are more stubborn than Billy though and somehow look better after Steve’s shuffled them around.

Billy’s hairspray turns his hand sticky. The scent of it strong, no need to creepily sniff his hand to get a whiff of it. Steve’s not that far in the hole he’s dug for himself. He’s still got plenty of dirt to dig up yet.

“Thank our lord and motherfuckin’ savior, I’ve been stuck talking to this shitburger for like a year.” Billy says, turning under Steve’s arm so his hold is around his shoulders instead of shrugging him off completely. “Where the hell you been, Harrington? Didn’t you get my distress signal?”

“He was at the nurse’s office—i.e. the distress signal.” Keith cuts in to explain since he is _apparently_ friends with Billy now, as though he’s earned it.

The words take a second to hit Steve and sink in. He finally notices the three of them are standing just outside the nurse’s office.

Steve slaps a hand to Billy’s forehead because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Steve can tell he’s not _hot_ and he’s not sweaty either.

Billy shoves his hand away. Says, “I’m not one of your brats, Harrington.”

Billy grumbles some more at him and looks as grumpy as he ever does when he’s forced into a corner, but he doesn’t shrug Steve off or push him away entirely, he stays tucked under the umbrella of Steve’s arm, even inches closer to Steve’s side.

Steve’s imagining it. He has to be.

His day can only be _so_ weird.

“I’m not _sick_.” Billy says.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“He said he was gonna—“ Keith is cut off by Billy’s hand shooting out and slamming flat on Keith’s face, pushing Keith back until Keith’s tipping over and his hands are flying out at his sides to catch himself.

Billy steers Steve away from Keith and the entire subject of _nurses_ and why Billy would need one with his hand firm and spread wide on Steve’s back.

Billy says, “thought Tommy jumped ya for a minute there.”

Faintly, Steve hears Keith yell out _I’m rooting for you, Steve Harrington!_

 _Worrying_ about sums it up.

 

—

 

There’s no more hiding in the library. Being friends with Billy means returning to the old way of things before Nancy where he got his own spot at any table—no Tommy or Carol in sight.

Steve’s not exactly complaining, but there really had been something nice about being by himself in a quiet well lit room, no one looking at him, no one expecting anything from him. Just him and the back table where he could zone out and carve mindlessly into the wood.

Steve’s friend circle has gotten tiny and maybe he should be worried about that or ask himself why everyone seems to lose interest so fast. Parents. Carol. Every girl he’s ever dated. _Nancy_.

 _Tommy_.

But Steve’s not thinking of Tommy right now. Not _this_ Tommy. The old Tommy, though. He dropped Steve just as fast as anyone else.

It had been just the three of them for years then there was Nancy and then there was just _Steve_ and his dictionary-pillow and now there’s Billy and _only_ Billy and Steve pokes at all this standing in line for lunch while Billy flirts successfully with the lunch ladies. Batting his eyes. Saying _sweetheart_ in a way that isn’t, like Nancy would say, _incredibly_ condescending. Rolling out his million watt smile and getting a corner slice of _Ethel’s_ birthday cake with a rosette—he even gets extra tater tots and every bit of Steve is offended.

Billy walks through school like he’s always lived in Hawkins and has _always_ been the top dog. Steve’s just waiting for him to punch a jukebox and pull a comb out of his pocket before deciding that, _no_ , his hair is already perfect as is.

It’s only a matter of time before Billy’s getting over whatever it is about Steve that’s caught his attention and dropping him too.

The thought bums him out.

Now that he’s noticed the pattern he can’t help but guess when it’ll be—another month? two? by summer? _tomorrow?_ Dustin will grow out of it soon and so will Will—Steve shoves a handful of way-too-hot tater tots into his mouth and chews through the burn, shutting up his head. Follows Billy to his table. Spots Nancy sitting with Jonathan and swallows too soon.

The two of them are sitting at the other end of the cafeteria, squeezed tight together. Jonathan’s arm is around Nancy.

Nancy and Steve’s eyes meet and hold and that pit inside of Steve he’d been so sure would become too much and sink him isn’t so bad anymore.

The pit stings. It aches softly in the background, but it doesn’t drag him inward, pinning him down and stabbing him in the chest until all he can feel is the hurt.

Nancy waves, small, awkward, with an unsure smile that’s hopeful for a friendship that’s been shot dead weeks ago even across a dozen tables. Jonathan keeps his eyes on his food.

 _Damn right,_ Steve thinks with only the tiniest bit of heat and satisfaction.

He waves back at Nancy, a limp upturn of his hand. It’s weird. It’s sort of nice too.

Billy drops his tray, the plastic tinny _THUD_ startling Steve, his eyes are on the tacky table top when he sits down across from him, blocking Steve’s view of Nancy.

 

—

 

“A cold?”

“ _No_.”

“Did they finally find a vaccine for asshole?”

Billy chews slow to really emphasize just how much he’s rolling his eyes. Steve likes watching him eat, he’s not sure when that started. He just likes it. He’ll throw it on the pile with everything else he can’t explain.

Billy’s not pale or green. He hasn’t coughed once. When he talks, his voice sounds _fine_ , not gravely and quiet like his throat is sore.

Billy looks—good. Really good. His hair is doing that thing with the bouncy, perfect curl up front and his eyes are sparkling and _no one’s_ eyes sparkle in the cafeteria. Especially not someone who needed to go to the nurse’s office.

 _What’s wrong with Billy Hargrove?_ is the new game Steve’s decided to play and, likely, completely fail at to avoid the _sooner or later_ incoming Tommy and _all_ Tommy related bull and the phone number in burning away in his back pocket reminding him he’s not Vicki or Miriam Castellano—just Steve. Plain old Steve. The Steve everyone leaves sooner or later.

Steve _could_ ask Keith. Keith would know.

Keith.

His name leaves a worse taste in Steve’s mouth than Tommy did.

The guy Billy’s suddenly _friends_ with. Keith knowing more about Billy than him—it would be an understatement to say it bugs Steve. He’s definitely going to be grinding his teeth over this for a while. It’s already bad enough he and Billy don’t have any of the same classes. He’s not about to let _Arcade Geek Keith_ with permanent cheese dust on his hands one up him.

Steve’s plucky and he’s going to give it his best and, like, _fuck you, Keith_. Really.

_Fuck you and your smart AP classes._

Steve’s totally fine.

“Stop.” Billy says. He’s popping tater tots into his mouth with one hand and his chin is resting on the other, bored.

“Huh?”

“Harrington.” Billy says. “I never thought I’d say this to you, but quit it with the staring, you’re gonna give me a complex.”

“I’m just trying to figure out which direction I should run if you end up puking.” Steve says. Then serious, but carefully lighthearted, he says, “but, like, are you okay?”

“Damn peachy, Harrington.” Billy says, rubbing his temples.

“But.”

“Nothing.”

“ _But. . . ?_ ”

“Your mama.”

“If my mom made you sick, you gotta tell me ‘cause she kisses me goodnight when she tucks me in for bed and I get _so cranky_ when I’m sick. I’m unbearable.”

“You’re such a nerd, I wanna fuckin’ die, je—sus.” Billy’s laugh makes Steve lean forward, elbows on the table, ass nearly off the bench. The cafeteria is loud with other kids and it’s _totally and completely_ understandable for Steve to make his way across the table to get closer to Billy.

He’s more than a distraction to Steve’s troubles. It’s easy to admit it, quietly to himself. Steve latches on quick to people. He wants to dig his fingers into Billy deep enough for Billy to not be able to shake him loose.

“So?” Steve says. “A bacteria that’s growing in your mullet? Oh my god,” he gasps, “ _it’s lice._ ”

“I’ll knock you out for even saying that. Twice.” Billy points at him with a tater tot. “My hair is the best thing about me.”

Steve can’t afford to touch that with _so many other suggestions_ just on the very tip of his very stupid tongue.

Instead, he says, “you’re gonna knock me out _twice?_ ”

“Play dumb with me if you want, pretty boy, but you heard me. One-two knockout.” Billy says.

Billy throws a tater tot in the air and leans back off the bench to catch it in his mouth. He’s smiling, proud of himself, like he wants Steve to applaud. The cafeteria gets _very_ warm. Steve keeps his hands separated and looks down at his tray to discover Billy has eaten _most_ of Steve’s tater tots.

Heartbreaking.

“I got my ass dumped and somehow this is worse. Hargrove, you bastard.”

“Quit your whining, ya pussy.” Billy says. He picks up the paper plate with the slice of birthday cake on it and puts it on Steve’s tray. “That’s an upgrade.”

Steve’s lived his entire life at this school and he’s never once gotten offered secret staff-only birthday cake.

Steve stares at the slice then at Billy. Confused. Tired. Life is a mess.

“What? A guy can’t give another guy cake? Isn’t that what you people do in this shitsburg?” Billy rubs a this nose, glares sharply at the warm look Steve must be giving him. “Stop looking at me.”

Steve makes a point to look at him even more. Blinking isn’t a thing. “Sorry, but, like, you’re being nice. Are you dying?”

“Harrington, I swear to _god_.”

“Is it the consumption?”

“You got me.”

Steve spears the end off the cake slice and takes a bite—it’s chocolatey and tasty. The frosting especially. Whipped cream and sugary as hell.

“Thanks.” Steve says.

Billy rolls his eyes and avoid’s Steve’s. “Shut up.”

Compliments never seem to stick with him. Water on a duck’s back and all. Steve’s not ten anymore, still, he knows not to reach across the table and grab his hand and his attention and show him he means it.

Steve eats some more cake. Says with a smile, “you flirted with the _lunch ladies._ ”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“All I’m doing is tossing it out there, if they wanna catch it and throw it back, that’s on them.” Billy shrugs. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

“I feel like there is somewhere in—in _that_ whole thing.” Steve makes a circle with his fork in the air. “I don’t know. Cake is good, but, like, not _tater tots_ good, ya feel me?”

“Poor, sad, potato fucker, Harrington.” Billy says, shaking his head.

Because Billy Hargrove is gross and the worst and a _thousand_ other terrible, no good things that have made Steve’s life confusing and awful for the last few weeks, Billy sticks his finger into the piped on rosette, scooping out a good hunk of frosting, then sticks his finger two knuckles deep into his mouth.

Two seconds. Barely that. The cafeteria is too noisy to catch the sound of Billy’s finger popping out from his lips, but Steve’s got a good imagination on him.

Steve is going to miss his next two classes. There’s just no way he’s going to physically be able to stand up from this table with his dignity before then.

Just _two entire seconds ago_ he was _so certain_ he was over the awkward erection stage of puberty, he’d gotten the techniques down—dick in the waistband solves a lot of problems—he knows thinking about his mom or a rotting demogorgon’s corpse will cool him off pretty quick—he just hadn’t been prepared for Billy and his mouth.

No wonder everyone thinks he’s a dumbass. He _is_ a dumbass.

“Way better than some potatoes.” Billy says, oblivious to Steve’s many problems. Steve agrees. He thinks he’s nodding. He’s not entirely sure he’s breathing. “So, King Steve, what’s the plan?”

“Um.” Steve stalls. He blinks hard. Shakes himself internally. Snaps imaginary fingers in front of his eyes. He’s going to have to stop at a restroom and jerk off. There’s no way he can get through the rest of the day without a quick squeeze.

Billy _has_ to know what he’s doing. Everyone is out to fuck with him. It’s really true. He’s doomed.

“The plan?” Steve says, faintly. A little lost.

“Yeah, _the plan_. To kick Tommy’s ass?”

“Oh. Oh yeah,” Steve says. “I mean, it’s _Tommy_ and—did Carol say something to you? Does literally _everyone_ at school know?”

They drove to school together. They walked into school together. Between classes both of them have gone out of the way to say _hey_ and Steve can’t think of a reason why they do this other than to just sort of _look_ at each other. There was no time for Carol to tell Billy or everyone else.

_Everyone knows._

Tommy kissed him and wants to kick his ass. Tommy’s just fucking with him. That has to be it.

Sweat is starting to build up under his arms. Steve can handle man-eating monsters coming for him. This? He has no idea what to do with any of _this._

“ _Carol_ gave you a heads up?’ Billy bursts out laughing. “Holy shit, that’s classic. Even his own bitch doesn’t think he stands a chance. Fuck, I’m gonna _cry_.”

Steve almost wants to defend Carol since Tommy’s a lost cause and Carol can be as awful as any girl can be, but—Steve stabs at the slice of cake, forks about half of it and puts it all in his mouth.

Carol really does love Tommy. Tommy fucks around on her _a lot_. Steve never said anything. She deserves someone better. Friend wise. Boyfriend wise. _Anyone_ better.

Steve eats the rest of the cake without really tasting it then he’s reaching over and eating some of Billy’s tater tots—the rest of what’s on his tray and Billy’s he doesn’t bother with. He’s got potatoes and guilt on the mind and a stomach that’s telling him he’s a piece of shit _and_ bullshit while his dick tells him to look at Billy’s mouth some more. A winning combination and why Steve’s been so great at life lately.

“I think I’m just gonna—“ Steve pauses to sip at his pepsi. “Ditch? Like. I think I’ll just ditch, you wanna ditch? Like, now?”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Billy’s not someone who ditches and he’s not the guy who runs from a fight. His disappointment just makes Steve go to eat more off his tray, but Billy stabs his plastic fork at Steve’s hand and leaves four little red marks from the prongs.

“Ow.” Steve says, flat, rubbing his hand just to delay and avoid. That’s his plan. Delay. Avoid. It’s worked well enough. What to do with Tommy has been a question in the back of his head for weeks and he hasn’t exactly come up with a plan other than _maybe_ hope Tommy keeps up with the silent treatment and learns to someday not be a dick. Then Tommy had to go and do _that._

 _Tommy’s a lost cause_ , he has to remind himself.

Delay and avoid. Pretend it’s all fine. Except Billy’s waiting for _more_ from him and Steve’s finding it harder and harder to not give him whatever he wants. Tater tots included.

Still, he’s got principles, which means Billy Joel stays in the rotation and he’s not going to give in _completely_.

“Look. Okay. I don’t know? Like, maybe wrestle him to the ground? Talk to him? Dodge? He’s kinda slow after lunch, he always eats way too much and passes out in his next class.”

He’s been doing that since grade school. Steve used to have to elbow him in the gut or kick his shin under his desk to wake him up before he got in trouble and then he’d fall back to sleep and Steve would have to do it again till the last bell of the day rang.

_Oh, those happy days._

“No.” Billy says.

“Yes?”

“ _No_. That’s not—where’s your fighting spirit? All that fuckin’ _fire?_ How the hell are you not into this, the guy’s a fucking grody ass motherfuckin’ douche who deserves to get his ass whooped by you.”

“If you wanna fight him, go ahead. I’m not gonna stop you. Feel free to use as many plates as you’d like on him.”

Billy’s unimpressed. Steve considers maybe he should be making more of an effort to get Billy to like him. Give him a few reasons to stick around. Except getting Billy worked up is becoming _a certain something_ with him. A big something.

Steve’s always liked girls who packed some heat and Billy’s a goddamn wildfire and Steve’s a dumbass moth.

“You are so not Buckaroo Banzai.” Billy sighs, seeming to deflate to one side so he can lean all his weight on his left arm. “I thought you were the king of this shit pile?”

“Who’s calling me Buckaroo Banzai? Wait.” Steve says, more serious then he’s ever been in his entire existence, “did you actually go to a theater and pay _actual_ money to see the movie _Buckaroo Banzai?_ ”

When he’s embarrassed, Billy get’s a pissed off crinkle between his eyebrows, glancing away like his blush will vanish if he just doesn’t _look_.

He flicks a tater tot at Steve’s face with his fork. Steve swats it away and wishes he’d caught it.

“Shut up.” Billy says. He snaps his plastic fork in two, fiddling with the handle piece. Steve grabs the other piece just because he can. “You’re zero for two, dude. Lame Sap Byers. _Me._ You gotta have, like, a strategy if you’re gonna win for once.”

 _For once._ Steve’s never felt so uncool. The government’s NDA is really fucking up his cred.

Steve breaks off two of the prongs on the plastic fork piece.

“But Tommy doesn’t even count, we’ve fought like a billion times. Literally. Actually _literally_. And I don’t—you know, fighting him. It’s dumb. It’s so dumb ‘cause he’s dumb. And it’s like—“ Steve waves his hands around, “—what’s the point? Why bother? _He’s so dumb._ ” Steve’s whining by the end, he can hear it in his voice.

“Getting to punch him in the face, that’s the point.” Billy says, blandly. Idly, he rubs his head. “Duh.”

“I’ve done that _so many times already._ It’s not as fun as it looks, dude.”

“Rich boy through and through, huh?”

“For real?” Steve says. “You ate my tater tots and you’re gonna say _that_ to me?”

Billy points to the paper plate on Steve’s tray. “I gave you cake.”

“Can we talk about anything else? Like the fact that you saw _Buckaroo Banzai?_ I don’t even think _Dustin_ saw that shit and he’s the biggest nerd in the whole state. And it was in theaters for like a _day_.”

Billy shoves his finger in Steve’s face, much closer now that Steve hasn’t been on his seat in _a while_.

“It’s _The Adventures of Buckaroo Fucking Banzai Across the 8th Dimension_ and it kicked ass. It deserved better and I’m gonna get the VHS and make you watch it and you, pretty boy, need to up your game.” Billy tells him sternly and Steve bites at his bottom lip, finds himself nodding, overlooking the finger in his face to give Billy his undivided attention and watch _that curl_ bounce in Billy’s conviction. “Number one. Don’t do the jumpy thing.”

Steve falls back on the bench.

“The jumpy thing?”

“The little fucking jumpy bouncy thing.” Billy says and then he’s _looking away_ and there’s the blush that brings out his freckles. _Freckles_. Billy Hargrove has _freckles_. Billy Hargrove’s back to glaring at him. “You do it right before you throw a punch. Like you’re winding your arm up. It’s a neon sign telling the whole damn planet what you’re about to do.”

“I don’t think I _bounce_.”

“You do.”

“That’s not true—I’d know. I think.”

“You bounce like you got cotton stickin’ outta your ass and you’re gonna hand me a chocolate egg.”

Steve makes a face. “Like, I appreciate the advice, but, _like,_ I think you’re overestimating Tommy. He’s more _swing first, look second_. He’s not Jackie Chan. He’s got two moves and one of them’s bluffing.”

“ _Jesus Christ._ I got twenty bucks on your ass to win, Harrington.” Billy says. “You _better_ beat his face in.”

“I’m not gonna fight.” Steve says, sure of himself right then. “Hold on, are people seriously betting on this?”

“Sure are.”

“A lot of people?”

“Yep,” Billy pops the _p_ , “and odds are pretty even, so, what does that tell ya about ole Tommy boy?” Billy finishes off Steve’s soda. Slams the can on the table and flattens it with his palm, making two girls jump at the table behind him. “You say you’re not gonna fight, but when he comes at you, you’re not gonna just roll over, are ya?”

Steve taps his fingers on the table. Settles on, “maybe?”

“You gotta fight him. It’s happening. No two ways about it, all that jazz BS. You’re doing it.” Billy says, both hands flat on the table looking about ready to shove Steve into the ring and not let him out till he’s got Tommy on his back and a foot on Tommy’s chest with the bell going off and a guy in stripes holding his fist up.

Billy knows Tommy _knows_ thanks to Steve. Billy _can’t_ have forgotten that.

Maybe Steve should just give in and fight Tommy. He’s got a face that does deserve a good punch. Just something to get him to chill out and think for a minute before he does something too stupid like run his mouth to the wrong people. Or try and kiss Steve again.

But he’s not thinking about that. Again. Or ever.

Steve doesn’t need anyone to tell him the odds on a fight between Billy and Tommy.

“Why do you care if I beat him?”

“Because you should.” Billy says. “People get what they deserve. You should win and Tommy should get his head clocked.” Billy shrugs. Someone on the other end of the cafeteria breaks out into _you spin me right round, baby/right round like a record, baby/right round round round_.

There’s a softness in Billy’s eyes Steve’s lucky to have caught as it’s gone just a second later and Billy’s smirking at him, mean and sharp. About to pounce. Steve sees it a mile away and he doesn’t move an inch.

“Besides, Harrington, if you don’t, _everyone’s_ gonna think you’re some pansy turning tail.”

“Okie dokie.”

“A scaredy cat. A little bitch.”

“All right. Got the idea. _Thanks_.”

“You a little bitch, Stevie?” Billy snaps his fingers. “No wait, I know— _a princess_.”

Maybe it really is all in Steve’s head. He’s gone crazy. It would explain a lot of what’s happened in the last few months. “Want me to stab him? Kick his ass till he doesn’t have one? What level of terminator is gonna make you happy here?”

“Harrington, listen.” Billy says. He starts rubbing his temple with his thumb. “I’m gonna die of boredom in this town. Let me have this one.”

And since Steve doesn’t want to be one of the _boring Indiana boys_ anymore, he let’s Billy have this one.

What’s one more fight in what should already be a dead friendship anyways?

Tiffany Mazzanti walks swiftly to their table and sets her tray and purse down, taking a seat next to Billy.

 

—

 

Tiffany wraps herself up in Billy. Makes herself at home by curling up on his arm. Pressing as much of herself all over him as she can. Putting her chin on his shoulder so she can be just on the edge of kissing him right here in front of everyone and Steve.

Billy _lets her_ do this. Eyebrows raised, glancing at Steve. Confused, but going with it.

There’s a big reason Steve avoided Tiffany for the last two weeks of summer camp. This is how Tiffany works. Coats herself in honey long enough to catch you then shows you how hard she can bite.

“Hi, Billy. I’m Tiffany.” Tiffany says sugary sweet, pink lips turned up into the pretty smile that had a middle school Steve falling for her hard.

“Hey, girlie.” Billy says just as sweetly. Slipping into the soft eyes and the big smile—Steve looks to the tiles on the ceiling, the linoleum floor. The other kids having lunches. He needs to clean his sneakers. There’s a big scuff mark on the side of his right one.

This is just _Billy_. He flirts. With Tiffany. With the lunch ladies. With Steve. None of it means all that much. Just Billy being Billy. Having some fun. Throwing it out there. Nothing wrong with that.

Tiffany’s petting Billy’s bicep and Billy’s _flexing_ and she’s giggling, pressing her chest to his arm and Steve’s back to being the third wheel, talking to himself in his head— _yeah, there’s something wrong here._

Steve sucks at his teeth. Breaks the last two prongs on the plastic fork with his thumbs. He brushes over his pocket to feel the slight bump of the stud earring through the denim.

He cuts in, interrupting their _moment_ , “you need something? Tiffany?”

She sneaks in one last squeeze, gets a wink from Billy, before shifting her attention to Steve with the same kind of no-nonsense set to her features she had when she told Steve he needed to learn to kiss better.

Tiffany holds up two fingers. She’s painted her nails neon yellow to match her eyeshadow and jewelry. All sweetness slips away and _there’s_ the Tiffany Mazzanti Steve hid in the bushes for over an hour in 100 degree heat to avoid.

“I’ll go on this date with,” Tiffany pauses, she has to pause here to swallow around the name _Keith_ , which she then only mouths, “under two conditions. Non-negotiable.”

Billy mutters, _Harrington, you’ve got a type._

“One.” Tiffany says, a little more pale, but still just as intensely _Tiffany_. “It’s a double date. No way am I doing this solo. You go out with my girl, Stacy, and there ain’t gonna be no funny business. None. Zip. Zero.”

Stacy McKenzie appears over her shoulder to wave— _again_ —at Steve. She’s unbuttoned more of her blouse. More of her bra is showing. More of her soft skin. Steve isn’t looking. _He’s not._ At least no longer than a second to wave and smile and dip his toes back in.

Billy’s looking between them, his face blank.

“Two.” Finger number two pops up. “No drive-ins. I’m not sitting in the backseat of your car with _that guy_ all night. Also, three, if he touches me at all, I’m leaving. If he tries to kiss me, I will murder both of you on the spot. Four, you owe me _so much._ ”

“Um?” Steve says. _Goddamn Keith and goddamn Dustin, the little shithead._

Tiffany rolls her eyes. She must have been expecting him to be more enthusiastic. Steve can’t imagine why.

“Yes or no, I don’t care. Well, Stace does. She’s into you for some reason even though I’ve told her, like, _a million times_ not to bother with you since you were _so_ not a good boyfriend.”

McKenzie slaps Tiffany on the shoulder with the back of her hand, smiling apologetically at Steve. Tiffany shrugs, says, _what, I’m just telling the truth?_

“I mean, I was only _thirteen_.” Steve says, to McKenzie and to Billy.

“Yeah and I’ve heard you haven’t gotten all that much better, so. Not really an excuse. But, you know, not my fight and all.”

The sensation of being chewed out sends him back to sweaty cabins and bad handjobs he lived through because he thought he was in love and getting up at sunrise to go glare at a pole and a flag in his underwear.

“Okay, fine. Whatever you want. Deal, I guess?”

“Finally, God.” Tiffany smooths her hand down Billy’s sleeve like she _has_ to touch him. “Take us somewhere nice, got it? I’m not putting out, but I still want to be romanced properly.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ _And_ —“ the eye contact is too much and Steve finds himself leaning back out of safety, “—you’re not dropping prom committee.”

That was definitely not a question.

Steve stumbles to say, “I thought maybe I’d—“

“Steve.” She says, slapping her hand on the table. Billy’s biting his thumbnail, grinning, laughing quietly when Steve jumps. “No one does color coordination like you, so, no, you’re not quitting. Our balloon arrangements will look like garbage if you do and my prom is not going to look like _trash_. You owe me. This is part of you owing me. Understand?”

Steve’s face heats up. He’s blushing hard. It would be crossing the line into _too weird_ territory to slip under the table and wait for her to leave. Billy might think he’s a pussy, maybe he’d understand, maybe McKenzie will get a clue and find someone better to flash her tits at.

“Shit, okay. Yes. Got it. I’m not quitting.” Steve mumbles, combing his hair back, hiding as much as he can behind his hand. If he doesn’t look Tiffany in the eye maybe she’ll leave before deciding to go for the throat.

“Excellent.” Tiffany says, perking up. She grins at him. _Good boy, Steve._ She turns to Billy and her hand goes under the table, on his leg, at most his knee, Steve hopes. “And Billy, if you wanted to, you’d totally be welcome to come too.”

“Thanks, doll.” Billy plays up his smile, touches some of her hair to tuck it behind her ear, the move happens in slow motion. Tiffany’s blushing. She’s at her happiest when she gets her way.

Tiffany gets up and grabs her purse, her tray, McKenzie’s hand. “I’ll see you guys at the party on Saturday?”

“Course.” Billy says.

“And Steve,” Tiffany says, “punch Tommy extra hard for me.”

She flutters her fingers in a wave when she walks away with a sing-song _bye, Billy!_. McKenzie lifts the back end of her shirt, exposing the tail end of her pink thong. The two girls fall into each other, laughing.

_Jesus Christ._

Steve pushes his tray away so he can properly smother himself with his hands and breathe into his palms.

“All these chicks yapping in your ear today, jeez.” Billy says. Steve peeks out through his fingers to see him shaking his head, a wry smile on his lip. “Man, she just beat the shit outta you.”

“She’s a little bossy.” Steve says and Billy reaches across the table to pull Steve’s hands down so he can get a good look at Steve’s embarrassment.

“Even your girl wants you to fight him.”

“She’s _so_ not my girl. At all. God no.”

Billy picks at his teeth with the plastic end of his no-longer-a-fork.

“Balloons?” Is all Billy has to say for Steve to want to _die_.

“Shut up or I will literally key every inch of your camaro.”

“Such a bitchy move, Harrington. Jeez.” Billy says. “Fine, whatever. What party is she talking about anyways?”

“Just some dumb kegger bonfire thing.”

“That mean booze?”

“It’s _lame_.” Steve says, stiffly. “Same thing every year. The middle schoolers have the Snowball dance and the high schoolers get wasted in the woods and freeze their asses off.” Where Tiffany and Miriam Castellano and Vicki and the entire school will be. Tommy too. “No thanks, man.”

The cafeteria is emptying out. Less then five minutes left before the next class. Steve thinks about asking Billy to ditch with him again.

“Kinda sounds like my type of shindig.” Billy says.

“Nah.” Steve tells him straight faced. Last year the cops had been called and two guys had jumped off the top of a tree—it’s _definitely_ Billy’s kind of party. But Steve has plans, after all. “We’ll think of somethin’ better.”

Billy chomps on the plastic fork, thinking.

“Did you really hit that?” Billy says, pointing the fork over his shoulder, lip curled up to match his eyebrow, disappointed with Steve’s past romances. All of them failed romances, now that he thinks of it.

Steve shrugs. “It was summer camp and I was like _twelve_. You know, puberty or something was happening. It’s _camp_. You’re either swimming or you’re—doing other _things._ ”

“Was she literally the only chick at space camp?”

“What, you didn’t like her? Kind of seemed like you did.”

Billy grins, though it doesn’t meet his eyes and isn’t as sparkling as his grins can be when they’re genuine. He bats his lashes, a hand over his heart, and says, “apologies, Your Highness.”

Steve isn’t at his best. He has no idea what that means or what he’s meant to do now that he’s put himself out there like this. He blames Tommy. And his dad. That seems like a good place to start.

Steve scratches at his nose. Thinks of that curled lip. Billy let a girl he’s never met and doesn’t like feel him up without a word.

“This date is gonna kill me.” Steve says. His future looking more and more grim by the minute.

“She’s pretty hot. Her tits are—“ Billy vaguely squeezes at the air, “— _gigantic_.”

Steve can’t believe he’s saying this. “Tits aren’t _everything_. There’s other stuff. Like the fact that I don’t _like_ her being the most gigantic one.”

“She’s _basically_ the princess, though. Except she’s got something to grab onto.”

“Nancy’s different. And, honestly, I’m not liking her all that much right now either, so—and don’t talk about her—her _area_.” Steve grabs all the tater tots left on Billy’s tray—cold, limp potatoes now—and shoves every one of them into his mouth to stop himself from talking.

Billy shakes his head, then he’s up and laughing and saying _Harrington, you’re such a fucking weirdo_ and that's that.

Billy Hargrove has a thousand and one options and Steve isn’t included, not anymore. He doesn’t remember. _He doesn’t care._ That’s okay. Steve can go with it. Move on. He’s good at moving on. Or, at least, he’s gotten better at it.

If he happens to take an interest in Billy’s biceps sometimes, that’s his business.

Steve empties his tray into one of the trash cans. Billy’s waiting for him. Steve walks him to his next class since it’s closer than Steve’s.

Before he goes in, Steve reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Billy’s jacket. Billy stops.

“What’s number two anyways? You know, don’t do the jumpy thing and?”

Billy’s grin is all bright white teeth and dimples. _Sparkly._ A word Billy would probably kill him for thinking.

He cups Steve’s cheeks in his warm, warm palms and pulls Steve down and in to say, “punch the motherfucker out.”

Billy lightly claps Steve on both cheeks and Steve stands there long after the bell has rung.

 

—

 

Sixth period just ended. Steve and Billy huddle close under the bleachers sharing a cigarette. Billy leaning against one pole. Steve right next to him leaning on another.

Billy has homeroom for seventh. Steve’s not about to hurry to U.S. History. Last class of the last day before break, there’s no rush for either of them.

Billy lights the smoke and lets Steve have the first drag. Billy’s wearing his gloves, scarf too. His face is tinged pink from the cold. They’ve only been out here for a minute.

Steve left his winter coat in his locker. It’s only for a few minutes. The sun’s out and everything. He feels like he’s burning out of his skin.

Steve wants to see how Billy looks in the summer.

Giving in and not wanting to think about it anymore, he hands Billy Vicki’s number. Torn between wanting to watch his face closely for any hints or looking out between the bleacher seats at the wet field, he chooses sighing to watch his breath come out as a cloud and disappear.

Billy flicks his lighter back open and puts the corner of the note over the flame. The pink paper takes a long second to light up. Billy holds it until the flame catches up to his fingers. He lets it flutter to the ground. Puts it out with his boot.

There’s a buzz in Steve’s ears. He feels high and short of breath.

Steve considers telling him _Tommy kissed me_. He thinks about touching Billy like Tiffany did. He shoves his hands into his pockets, touches the stud earring with the back of his fingers and tells himself Billy wouldn’t care, that he’s being silly. Thinking too much or thinking too little, Steve’s can’t find a middle ground.

Billy says, “talk around school is you're Carol’s secret side bitch and that’s why Tommy’s gunnin’ for ya.”

Effortlessly, Billy blows a smoke ring and passes the cigarette to Steve.

Steve coughs on the inhale, chest sunken. He stares at the ground at the burnt note, one lonely heart left on it. Ink bleeding from the mud. Annoyingly, he feels bad for Vicki. One sad sack to another, he feels for her.

“Do I even have a rep anymore” Steve wonders out loud to Billy and to all the rest of Hawkins that wants to eat him alive.

 

—

 

There’s no point to practice today. With no games coming up and with two weeks off ahead of them, it would be surprising that anyone showed up if it wasn’t for _the fight_ that the entire school apparently knows about.

Steve walks into the locker room hunched over. He’s tense and his shoulders are cramping from being hunched together for so long—the back of his neck is so tight he can’t turn his head. Nerves isn’t it. Fighting Tommy’s like breathing. He can do that in his sleep.

He just doesn’t _want_ to.

Steve heads to his row. A few of his teammates clap him on the shoulder.

_Give him hell!_

_Knock the fuck’s nose in for me, would ya?_

Billy yells, _fuck that bitch UP, Harrington!_ and gets a rowdy cheer from the whole team that Steve would have said didn’t hate Tommy or even dislike him five minutes ago.

A fights a fight, though. Whoever it’s between, it’s something to watch in a town like this. Billy hadn’t been wrong about that. Boring Indiana boys, the lot of them.

He catches Billy’s eye over the lockers. Billy nods to the empty space where Tommy would be if he was here. Wiggles his eyebrows to say, _ain’t that funny?_

Then Billy takes his shirt off and Steve thinks about _Star Wars_.

 

—

 

He hadn’t been lying to Dustin when he told him he’d never seen _The Star Wars_ , it’s just when he saw the first one in theaters with Tommy and his older brother, he’d fallen asleep and when he woke up the credits were playing.

For the second one he’d been on one of his first dates and he’d been so preoccupied with trying to hold Chrissy Rogers’ hand and then fretting over if he should try to kiss her or not, he hadn’t paid any attention to the movie.

He hadn’t even bothered going to see the third one.

Dustin likes _Star Wars_ so much and, _somehow_ for some ridiculous reason that has to be a misunderstanding, Dustin likes him too, so Steve committed to the lie.

It’s not a big lie, not to him. Maybe to Dustin. It’s not anywhere near saying _I love you_ when you don’t _actually_ mean it and it’s not even on level with saying _I’m not interested in Jonathan Byers_ and then going out and _fucking him_.

Steve’s definitely good at moving on and he gets straight A’s every year and he’s got accepted to Harvard.

But he doesn’t avoid Nancy in the halls at school anymore. They pass by each other awkwardly, smiles pasted on that are so fake it leaves Steve’s stomach spinning. They’re trying, though.

He still avoids Jonathan, but that’s on principle. There’s a line and being nice to the guy who fucked your girlfriend is _it_.

He’d saddled up one Saturday and watched all three of the movies on the VHS tapes his dad has then watched the bootleg copies at Dustin’s after Dustin _insisted_ they added _authenticity to the Star Wars experience_.

He’d paid attention to Dustin’s commentary and managed to not fall asleep once. In Dustin’s words, _it was a victory for their friendship_. Steve had only cringed _a little_ when he’d said that, proving his point.

Steve’s sitting on one of the benches, untying his shoes to change when he sees Tommy’s sneakers.

 

—

 

Steve pauses mid-untying to look Tommy over, trying to see how Tommy’s expecting this to go down.

Tommy’s smiling at him, as friendly as ever. Steve ties his shoes back up—he’s not going into a fight barefoot, he’s done that before with Tommy— _never happening again_ —and stands, casually, to tell Tommy how unimpressed he is with this and that he’d better back off and that Steve’s just not very into the entire _fighting thing_ at the moment anyways. Wants to get all this across to Tommy before Tommy throws all his cards on the table and swings.

But Tommy’s just standing there and smiling and _that’s_ definitely new and not at all Tommy-like.

The usual Tommy fight isn’t this quiet or this slow to start. One of the two moves Tommy has is he charges for Steve, shoves himself into Steve’s face, gets loud, gets obnoxious. He wants Steve to back down so he can stick out his chest and act like he’s won something from him.

“So.” Steve says, slowly. Patiently. He’s about to laugh in Tommy’s face and it probably won’t help the situation any. “Heard you wanted to fight me?”

Tommy nods. “Yep.”

“And you’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Uh huh.” Steve licks his lips. Tommy’s grin falls. “You wanna rethink this or am I gonna have to talk to Carol later? ‘Cause I _really_ don’t want to talk to Carol.”

There’s _ooo-ing_ and then laughter from his teammates.

Tommy’s expression is pinched, eyebrows furrowed while his mouth sucks on something sour. Slowly, he pushes at Steve’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers, only hard enough to get the point across.

“Sorry, I don’t have all day for you to have a thought, Steve.”

Someone yells out _Damn!_.

Steve looks from his shoulder to Tommy and stares him down, surprisingly Tommy doesn’t budge. This is getting less funny and just becoming _annoying_.

The locker room settles down again, a quiet tension building between them and everyone else holding their breath. Steve can feel their eyes on him, waiting for the first hit.

“One more time. You really wanna do this?” Steve does exactly what Tommy did to him—he jabs at his shoulder _just enough to get his point across_.

Two teammates come to stand behind Tommy. Jason and Chris. Jason’s chewing his gum in loud smacks, one big hand on the lockers to Steve’s right. Chris stands on the other side of Tommy, crossing his thick arms, jutting his lower jaw out to look tough and succeeds seeing how he’s half a foot taller than Steve.

Steve eyes them both. He’s never had a problem with either of them, he didn’t think so at least.

This isn’t going to be one-on-one. Tommy would lose. Tommy’s dirt dumb, but he’s got balls and he’s not gonna throw himself out there like this in front of everyone just to get his ass handed back to him.

 _Well, no shit the odds are even_. Tommy’s got back up while all Steve’s got is a childhood of knowing exactly how to humiliate Tommy the worst.

Steve realizes he doesn’t stand even half a chance now.

Still, Steve stays his ground despite the change. Plants his feet. Squares his shoulder. Keeps his chin up and his eyes on Tommy’s face turned smug.

He may be about to get taken down, but he’s going to make sure he takes Tommy with him if this is how he’s going to play this.

Steve says, mildly, “you guys gonna start snapping your fingers? Break into a song and dance for me?”

“Funny how you jump to musicals.” Tommy says. This time he shoves at Steve’s shoulder a little harder.

Steve laughs. Does it right back to him.

“ _Real hilarious_ you know exactly what I’m talking about since we watched the movie together, like, an actual million times. You wouldn’t stop singing the Jet song—or was it _I Feel Pretty?_ ”

Tommy falters, his tough guy acting cracking. He’s starting to sound like the old Tommy Steve knows how to deal with.

“ _You_ were the one who was obsessed with that song.” Another shove. Meaner. Harder.

“Not how I remember it.” Steve delivers it right back to him. Tommy’s footing slips and he stumbles back half a step.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Billy says. “How the fuck do all you Indiana bitches get anything done with all this goddamn _yammering_.”

Billy shoves himself between Tommy and Jason, dunking Tommy’s head when he passes and sending Jason off balance to stand next to Steve. Puts his elbow on Steve’s shoulder and gives the three other boys a grin.

Steve forces himself not to show any of the surprise or the relief he’s feeling at Billy coming to stand by his side instead of just out in the sidelines, watching like everyone else. His gut tells him he’s going to be okay now that Billy’s here.

Two and against three—and Steve’s got _Billy_.

“Hey, look at that, Steve’s girlfriend is here.” Tommy bounces back quickly. “Or is it the other way around?”

“Hey,” Billy says, slings his arm around Steve’s shoulders and nods to Tommy, “ _look at that_ , if it ain’t the ‘pitome of pussified redneck morons. Sure you got enough cow-fuckers for this one-on-one?”

“See, this right here, Steve, is _actually_ funny since, _you know_ , you were the one who kept saying you guys weren’t friends and you hated him and—“ Tommy pauses to dramatically wave his hands wide at the both of them, “— _kinda_ looks like you were lyin’ outta your ass.”

Teeth grinding together, Steve is about to take a step forward to show Tommy exactly who the liar is, but Billy squeezes him closer to his side, telling him to hold on.

Not yet.

“You got a point to make or do you just want me to get it over with and beat your face inside out?” Steve says.

“Hold on, shit. I just thought of something—oh my _god_. I got a good one for ya. Billy’s gonna love it so much he’ll freak.” Tommy says. He comes up and smacks Billy on the arm, laughing.

Billy smacks him back harder on the arm, _laughing_.

Steve flexes his fingers.

With a big grin, Tommy glances between Jason and Chris then to Steve and Billy, and says, “this is gonna rock your socks off—did you guys hear the one about Billy’s ma?”

Billy goes stiff around him. Everyone in the locker room quiets down.

“No, what about my mom?” Billy says.

“I’m gonna tell ya.”

“Yeah, ya are.”

“I will, I will. _Chill out_ , my man.” Tommy waves him off.

Billy’s arm slides off of Steve and he’s moves to stand nose to nose with Tommy and grab him by the front of his shirt. They’re the same height and yet Billy manages to yank Tommy up onto his toes, his bicep bulging.

“I ain’t got all day, Tommy.” Billy says, his tone just as pleasant and his smile just as nice as before.

Tommy—he’s in a good mood. Smug and proud of whatever he’s got. Smiling and happy about what he’s about to do. _He’s got something real_ , Steve realizes and begins to panic.

He puts his hand on the back of Billy’s shoulder. Says, “Hey.”

“Keep your panties on.” Tommy says.

Billy shakes his head, just a bit. “Too late, already dropping’m.”

“Tommy, shut up.” Steve cuts in, squeezes Billy’s shoulder harder, breaking Billy’s concentration on Tommy, Billy shrugs him off and shoots a quick, knife sharp smile over his shoulder. “Nah, Harrington, I like to laugh as much as the next guy. Let your boy talk.”

“Yeah, _Harrington_ , let me talk. This is what _friends_ do. We make each other _laugh_.”

Above them, something metal and old in the ceiling begins to creak, the sound of gurgling water traveling overhead and to the showers.

“Tommy, for once in your stupid fucking life, shut your mouth.” Steve says. Tries again to get Billy’s eyes back on him. “He’s an actual moron. Don’t bother with him. Let’s bounce. _C’mon_.”

“Apparently,” Tommy fake whispers, leaning in to Billy’s hold on him to talk into Billy’s ear, “Billy’s mom was _so jealous_ over how much cock her son was getting, she had to skip town and blow her way outta state. Last anyone heard, she croaked under a train of johns lined up around the block at a Motel 6.”

No one laughs. The locker room is silent except for Tommy’s soft chuckle, the ugly, chilling creaking coming from the ceiling, the gurgling of water rushing to the showers through decades old copper pipes that turns into grating, screeching squeals—then the loud, ear popping sound of metal bursting open and water gushing like a geyser has opened up.

There’s cursing from his teammates, half of them running to see what happened the other half jumping from the noise, torn between the fight and whatever just exploded, including Steve.

His heart is hammering in his chest. The sound of more straining metal rings in his ear. _Demogorgons._ He’s flooded with rushing, pounding blood that’s telling him _to do something right now_ and he nearly misses Billy’s dangerous grin. Nastier than the one he’d seen at the Byers’.

Blood drips out of Billy’s nose. The air becomes electrified. The pipes continue to groan and there’s another head splitting _pop_ , more water flooding the showers and beginning to leak and flood the locker room.

Jason runs for the showers, while Chris heads for the exit, leaving Tommy alone in Billy’s hold.

Billy bites the end of his tongue, hardly an inch from Tommy’s face.

Billy says, softly, “I’m gonna break your jaw, then I’m gonna kick your dick into a cunt.”

His hold on Tommy shifts quickly. He grabs Tommy by the neck and swings him around to slam him against the wall of lockers. The sick crack of Tommy’s skull connecting with the lockers hits louder than his teammates yelling, scrambling to figure out what’s going on.

The choked noise Tommy makes. Blood dribbles out of his mouth. He bit his tongue. Tore his lip. Billy punches him twice in the face, his other hand squeezing Tommy’s neck, his fingers turning white and red, sinking into his tendons, his throat.

It all happens so quickly, barely between one breath and the next. Any thought of fighting or not fighting, trying to talk Tommy down is forgotten in Billy’s tense back, the quiver of his muscles gone taut.

Tommy’s face is turning red with wet ragged, choked breaths that slip through Billy’s grip. His hands scramble and scratch at Billy’s forearm, leaving cuts wherever he can reach. Over Billy’s shoulder, Tommy’s eyes are only on Steve— _just proving a point_.

Steve puts his hands on Billy’s wrist. His arm is trembling from the strength of his hold on Tommy. Rage rushes through the popped veins of his arm and into his hand.

Billy’s not grinning. Not laughing. Not playful. Not looking at Steve and saying _see? told you. there’s the fire_. He’s not enjoying any of this.

The water from the shower has reached them, pooling around their shoes.

“It’s over.” Steve says because he’s _dumb_ and Tommy’s still that kid who he spent every day and every night with when they thought nothing could ever change them when really they’d changed so much under each other’s nose, just too slowly to notice.

Billy’s breath stutters, his blue eyes snapping to Steve widen. _Frightened._ The blood from his nose drips down his chin.

“It’s over, okay? You can let go now.” Steve says. He rubs at his arm, up and down his bicep, again and again until he feels Billy’s muscles loosen.

Unsteady, Billy lets go.

Coach slams through the locker room door blasting his whistle.

 

—

 

The entire team is kicked out of the locker room and lingers in the gym. Practice is cancelled without anyone having to announce it.

Coach yells his head off at everyone, asking _what in the damned hell happened in there?!_ and only getting angrier when no one has an answer while maintenance rushes to shut the water off for the entire school.

His teammates cackle, enjoying seeing the school wrecked and coach going red in the face, all the while trying to figure out what _actually_ happened.

A couple of them who stuck around to watch applaud Billy and Steve for the fight. Steve ignores them. He’s got the jitters. Wound up with nowhere to go.

It’s chaos to the extreme.

Billy grabs his jacket and leaves without a word to anyone. Steve watches him till he’s pushing through the gym doors then turns to Tommy, sitting on the floor, sipping from a water bottle with blood under his nails and rolling his eyes at whatever Jason’s telling him. His neck’s already going bright red and Steve can just make out the imprint of Billy’s fingers blossoming into a deep blue on Tommy’s skin.

It’s nearly two decades of habit and memories and a friendship that used to mean more than Steve being irritated and Tommy getting in his face that has Steve pausing, thinking of holding his hand out to him, helping him up, dusting off his back. The tug of old ties wants him to and keep trying again and again.

Mrs. Cobb has no idea what she’s talking about.

 

—

 

Backpack slung over his shoulder, winter coat on and zipped up and unflattering in every way, Steve finds Billy in the parking lot, hunched over a car that’s _not_ the camaro but the car parked next to it, breath puffing out in wispy plumes that makes him look like he’s smoking the toothpick in his mouth, curls hiding his face.

A part of him had thought Billy would have driven off and he’d understand. He’s glad Billy stuck around. Relieved to see him waiting for him.

Billy’s carving scribbles into the car’s hood with his keys, intent on chipping as much paint off as he can. He’s still wearing his P.E. shirt under his jacket. The blood from his nose has been cleaned off.

Steve runs his finger over some of the scribbles. Chipped green paint comes off on the pad of his finger. He wipes it on his jeans.

“Who’s car?” Steve says. Billy stays quiet.

Steve watches him tuck his keys back into his pocket and lean against the camaro, glaring down at his shoes or the parking lot asphalt or some image of something _downright bad_ in his head.

Shame rolls off of Billy in waves, just like the morning after he’d climbed through Steve’s window and called himself a _cock thirsty fag_ and Steve doesn’t have any better ideas on how to handle this and make it better for Billy than he did before.

He can’t stand this kind of silence. He’s got enough of it at home.

In the camaro’s window, Steve idly tries to fix his hair—it’s gone wild and he wants to pull his comb out. Billy would get a kick out of seeing him primp in a car window, especially if it’s his car.

So Steve does. He pulls out his comb and tries to tame what’s happened to his hair, his hands aren’t quite at their best, shaking just slightly, still high off the adrenaline of the fight. He keeps his eyes on his own reflection and from his peripheral he sees Billy turned slightly towards him—he doesn’t have to see all of him to feel Billy looking his way.

“You got a smoke?” Billy says. His voice quiet and roughed up.

Steve does and fumbles to get his last cigarette out.

Billy plucks it from Steve’s pack and Steve tries his best to keep his hand still when he flicks open his lighter and Billy leans in, holding his hair back, to catch the flame and turn the end into a cherry.

Billy wraps his lips tight around the end. The afternoon has warmed up from the cold of this morning. The sky cloudless and blue. The parking lot lines are faded and should’ve been repainted a decade ago and Steve focuses on the faded white stripe under his boot.

They pass the smoke back and forth till it’s down to the filter, the two of them watching the ice turn into grimy sludge in the sun. The camaro cold on Steve’s back. The silence shifts to something bearable and Steve manages to catch Billy’s eyes.

There’s this flutter in Steve’s chest that has nothing to do with adrenaline and he wonders if feeling this makes him a worse person. The world keeps getting stranger. Tommy definitely hates his guts.

“She’s not dead.” Billy says. “She’s just—“ Billy turns to face away from Steve. “She’s just not here.”

“Okay.” Steve says.

Billy nods. Bites at his nail. “Okay.”

Opening up just enough for Steve to put his foot through the door. He wants Steve to believe him. It’s important that he does, why else would he tell him.

And Steve does.

“Okay.” Steve says again, softer and just as carefully.

Billy inhales deeply, blows the smoke through his nose and Steve thinks of a bull—big and strong with bruises that bleed into old and new pains, charging at whatever comes his way, fighting because he has to.

Billy stubs the cigarette out with his heel, the crunch of the bottom of his boot grinding against the small rocks on the asphalt sends a shiver down to Steve’s toes.

Billy sighs when he exhales, the tension bleeding out of him slowly. He rubs at his head then his mouth and peeks at Steve from the corner of his eyes.

“What?” Steve says. He presses his shoulder to Billy’s and Billy shakes his head.

“You're too nice for your own good, you know that, Stevie Nicks?“ Billy says.

It’s Steve’s turn to turn his head to keep Billy from seeing. He laughs, rubs at the back of his neck and waits for his face to cool off and for his insides to calm down. He takes a deep breath.

“Truth or dare?” Steve says.

Billy cracks a smile. A small one that’s painful to make, Steve’s sure, but it’s there and so is Billy.

“Dare.”

“Shocking.”

Billy flips him the finger.

“ _I dare you_ ,” Steve says loudly, “to come get a pop with me.”

The sudden sound of Billy erupting into laughter, how it lights up his face—

 

—

 

The kids are busy with the last AV club meeting of the year. Steve’s unsure of what exactly they do in that club despite what Dustin’s told him—all his chattering goes in one ear and out the other, with nothing to soak up all the information in between. What Steve does know for sure is they’ll be there for hours.

Five may be when the Hargroves and Mayfields have to be home most days, a strict curfew Billy’s never broken once during the week, but Fridays are different. They have time.

Splitting two Coca-Colas and a Kit-Kat from the vending machine by the cafeteria, they walk around school, empty except for the handful of clubs bothering to meet. They pass the music room.

Band practice isn’t today. The music room is empty and unlocked. No wheezing trumpets. No ear-bleeding violins.

The piano is there, sitting quietly, catching Steve’s attention every time he passes by the room.

Steve lingers in the doorway. This time he goes inside and hears Billy follow him, footsteps stilted and slow—stuck at the hip, that’s what they are and the whole school knows it. The girls drooling after Billy know it too.

Steve takes a seat at the piano and lifts the cover for the keys and presses a few randomly like he does at home. Billy sits next to him, facing outward, away from the piano.

After a few more mindless pokes at the keys—for a second Steve thinks he might have stumbled into a tune—Steve drops his hands on his lap. Billy’s not taking the bait. That’s okay.

But Steve can be determined even when the world’s not ending.

“Let me see.” Steve says. He holds out his hand.

Billy waits a long while before tugging his left hand out of his pocket and holding it up for Steve and Steve, thoughtless and mindless and body thrumming, takes Billy’s hand in his and pulls him in. It’s that night in his room all over again.

Knuckles a raw pink from punching. Skin a little cracked and dry from winter. On his palm is the fading cut he’d gotten from Steve’s house and it’s not nearly as big or as scary as Steve remembers it being. Billy wears a silver band on his middle finger—that had hurt _a lot_.

The light green-blue of his veins is so delicate.

Steve rubs his thumbs into Billy’s knuckle, the one that juts out and looks like it’s punched more than just Steve or Tommy and has healed over in a funky kind of way. The skin is scraped, but it’s not bleeding, just tender. Steve keeps his touch light.

Billy’s lashes flutter.

“Thanks for having my back.” Steve says.

When Billy swallows, his throat clicks. He yanks his hand away. He’s up and out of the classroom. Steve runs to catch up with him.

“Fuck,” Billy says, eyelids heavy, face going pale, “I need a drink.”

“What about— _what about,_ ” Steve thinks quickly, “we go beat the shit outta some cars?”

 

—

 

They stop at Buck’s and while Billy’s outside listening to the b-side of _Number of the Beast_ , Steve heads in and pays cash for the gas. Gives Billy a thumbs up through the window. A thin trail of blood drips down Billy’s hand.

On the outskirts of Hawkins, Old Buck is used to hunters coming through and has the bare essentials when it comes to fixing up an injury.

Steve grabs a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a roll of gauze along with a handful of different candy bars, a pack of deer jerky—because _meat_ , and two bottles of water. Piles it all up on the counter and gives Old Buck behind the world’s first cash register his All American Good Guy smile.

Old Buck’s stink eye is as familiar and welcoming as any hug from his parents.

 

—

 

With the camaro between them and Old Buck’s stink eye, Billy peels off his jacket. Blood is smeared up and down his right arm and on the sleeve of his shirt, making the cuts look worse than they are—Steve hopes so.

He lets Steve pour the entire bottle of hydrogen peroxide all along his cuts, but when it comes to the gauze, Billy does it himself. Wraps it all along the length of his arm and ties it off with a combination of using his teeth and fingers.

Billy tosses his jacket into the trunk of his car.

“I got a good recipe for getting blood out of clothes. If you need it.” Steve says.

Billy snorts.

When they drive off, Steve waves to Old Buck and likes to think Old Buck waves back.

 

—

 

Billy parks the camaro at the main road and they walk the rest of the way along the dirt path to the junkyard, Steve leading the way with his backpack over one shoulder and Billy holding a crowbar he’d gotten from his trunk, thoughts only on the warm sun on his back and the sound of their steps on dead leaves and twigs and grass, the satisfying crunch of all of it under foot.

The junkyard’s a little suspicious out of context what with the bus boarded up like _that_ and the splatter of Upside Down related _goo_. It’s the first time Steve’s been back here since the End of the World. Whether or not this is a good idea—Steve’s sticking with it since it’s the best one he’s got. He’s not about to let Billy shut down on him or get stuck in the dark where shame’s all he can feel.

There’s no questions from Billy, just a raised eyebrow while he checks the junkyard out that leaves Steve feeling like some sort of _vandal_.

Billy lobs the crowbar to Steve. Steve catches it, the weight of it knocks into his chest.

Billy breaks the leg off an ancient rusted wood working horse that’s sinking into the dirt with a kick and some aggressive leverage. Tosses it in his hand to test the weight, the orange of the rust coming off on his fingerless gloves, and looks around the junkyard.

“I’m not even gonna ask.” Billy says and juts his thumb out to point to the bus over his shoulder. Billy gestures in front of him to Steve. “Ladies pick first.”

“Well, aren’t you a polite young man.” Steve mutters, searching the junkyard for what would have the most satisfying feedback when it gets hit.

Out in the brambles, Steve spots an old pickup that’s not completely rusted through and still has all its windows intact.

Steve leads the way, pats the hood of the truck. “Like it?”

Billy holds the rusted leg on his shoulder and studies the truck for a minute, eyes narrowing. He slides his aviators on. Steve does the same with his ray-bans.

“My old man used to have one just like this. Back in California. Always bitched about how much it sucked down gas.” Billy says then he swiftly swings the rusted leg down and shatters the driver’s side window.

Billy grins at Steve, glee coming off him in bright waves. “Fuck yeah, man.”

“Right?” Steve says.

Steve jumps up on the trunk bed and brings the crowbar up over his head and down onto the truck’s roof. The vibrations sting his hands and his wrists a little, but the satisfaction of the hit, the _CLANG_ of metal on metal and being the cause for the dent feels good. Amazing. Gets his blood pumping again like he’s playing basketball and not swinging for his and a couple of kids’ lives.

Billy jumps on the truck bed to see the damage.

“Nice one. Let me try.” Billy hits the same spot with the rusted leg and manages to break through the metal, just a bit. “There it is.”

“I totally did most of the work on that.” Steve says, touching the torn metal. He can just about fit two fingers through the roof.

“Whatever you say, Harrington.”

Billy goes around to the front and shatters the head lights and together they demolish the truck, glass and shrapnel fly into the air—one piece from the windshield breaks off and cuts Steve’s cheek. He wipes the droplet of blood off on the back of his hand and laughs.

They go from the truck to an old lime green corolla to a busted pontiac that has Billy putting a hand to his heart and saying _a damn shame_ before knocking it’s bumper off with a few kicks.

Steve gets tired first, sweat making the back of his neck sticky. His arms are sore and tired, muscles worn out. His hands are definitely going to be wrapped around some ice once he gets home. That or some ice cream.

He finds a spot in the dirt and flops down, crowbar in his lap. Watches Billy turn another car inside out, the steady CLANGS and CRACKS create a beat that lulls Steve into this odd, calm state where he’s not thinking, not worried, not anything. Everything gets lost in the quiet. There’s just the cold ground underneath him and the swing of Billy hitting metal and glass in dirty jeans and a t-shirt. The black fingerless-gloves are the cherry on top.

The tired-out feeling in Steve’s body reminds him how he feels after a game of basketball. Whether his team wins or loses, it’s a good feeling.

The sun is beginning to go down, hinting at sunset as the blue fades into a warmer color.

Steve brushes his hair back. Pushes his sunglasses to rest on top of his head. Wipes his face on the inside of his shirt. He takes his jacket off and balls it up, shoves it into his backpack.

Billy’s working up a sweat. His t-shirt clings to him, his curls start to stick to his neck and forehead, sweat drips from his nose and chin. The cuts start to bleed through the gauze from the force of Billy’s swings and the impact of landing his hits. He keeps going for so long that when he drops the rusted leg with a soft _thud_ , the sound of metal hitting metal echoes.

Then Billy’s down, crouching on the ground next to the car, clutching at his head hanging between his knees.

Steve moves slow to keep from spooking him. Squats beside him to hear Billy panting and see how red his hands are despite his fingerless gloves, covered in rusted metal and sore from how long he’d spent beating the cars.

No idea what to do, Steve stays quiet and waits, hoping for a hint. Anything. Tries to think of what to say to make it better.

“I’m sorry.” Billy says, softly. “What I did to you at the Byers’ house. I didn’t—I wasn’t mad at you. Not really. Sometimes I just get—” Billy’s voice cracks and he curls up tighter into a ball, hiding from Steve. “M’sorry.”

Billy savagely rubs at his head then stops abruptly. His arms are blocking Steve from seeing his face. Every part of him tense, coiled up and rigid, like he’s waiting for Steve to do something to him. Hit him. Yell at him. Nothing good.

It’s the apology Steve would’ve wanted a month ago when he could still dredge up some resentment over the entire ordeal. Right now, it just makes his chest clench like a vise and all it makes him feel is crummy and exhausted to the bone.

There’s so much anger inside Billy underneath all that cool. It spills out of him and he can’t seem to control it when it does.

Steve puts his hand flat on the middle of Billy’s back—he’s burning up, about to catch on fire if he keeps this up—and even though his touch is gentle, Billy still flinches and when Steve keeps his hand still, he whips his head up to stare at him. Eyes gone glassy and wide and all too bright in that awful kind of way.

“Come with me.” Steve says. He stands up, offers his hand to Billy and Billy stares at it confused and Steve wants to reach out and ruffle his hair and tell him it will be all right. “Come on, Hargrove.”

Billy takes his hand and Steve helps him up.

 

—

 

They sit on top of the bus’ roof. Steve laughs at Billy side eyeing the barricades and the ladder inside and can practically hear the _what the hell do you people do in here?_ he’s asking in his head.

Up top, it’s colder and a little windy. It feels nice on his hot skin and the cold metal of the roof soothes the ache on his hands.

Billy’s curled up, arms folded over his knees, looking out over the junkyard. Pensive and quiet. Steve settles down next to him. Glancing at him when the breeze catches his curls. Sunset turns Billy’s hair darker. Orange light brings out the slight freckles on his cheeks.

Steve unzips his backpack and roots around inside, breaks out the bag of jerky. He nudges Billy with it. Billy reads the package, scrunches his nose up at it.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Bambi’s real yummy.” Steve tells him. Opens it up and takes a big bite of a piece. Then offers the pack to Billy.

Hesitating, Billy takes a piece, sniffs it first then rips a small chunk off with his hands and pops it into his mouth.

“You knocking me out was like,” Steve says, scooting closer so when he folds his legs his knee touches Billy’s thigh, “maybe the seventh not so great thing to happen to me that day. It was a really shitty day. Like, all around. Still,” he bumps his shoulder into Billy’s, angling his head down to catch Billy’s eye and smile at him, encouraging, “thank you.”

Billy goes stiff, his hair somehow seizes up too. From the corner of his eye, under all that blond, Billy stares at Steve, then his hand is flying out and covering Steve’s mouth.

“Shut up, please just—shut up, Harrington.” Billy says.

Steve gets rust crumbs or _whatever they are_ on his lips from Billy’s glove and he can _taste rust_ , which is not a thing he ever wanted to put inside his mouth or _taste_.

He bats Billy’s hand away and spits off the roof, wipes his eyes off on the hem of his shirt too.

“Yuck.” Steve says, sticking his tongue out, and starts laughing at Billy’s horrified, blushing face. “You should make that face more often. Makes you look cute.”

Billy chokes on jerky or his spit or Steve’s words that rush all the blood to his face. He spits out, “ _Christ_.”

“That’s _Jesus_ Christ, to you, young man.”

“Jesus Christ, then— _Christ_.”

Steve gets the water out. Puts a bottle next to Billy and cracks open his own and swishes the water around in his mouth, spits it off the roof. Rust is not a good flavor to have in your mouth. _No thank you._

Billy’s watching him and isn’t shying away when Steve looks back at him.

Steve digs through his backpack and pulls out the paperback Mrs. Cobb had trusted him to give to Billy. _Sirens of Titan_ is purposefully ignored and kept hidden under his jacket and Steve zips his backpack back up and shoves it to the side, out of reach, just in case Billy gets any ideas.

He hands the book to Billy. Explains it’s from Mrs. Cobb and watches Billy struggle whether or not to smile or grumble as he flips through the book one-handed on his lap while he gnaws on the jerky and drinks his water.

With every minute that passes he’s less miserable, less shrunken in on himself.

“That book looks demented.” Steve says.

“Then it’s perfect for me.” Billy says around a mouthful. “I mention Schmendrick once in an essay and _BAM_ , I’m teacher’s pet.”

“What’s a _Schmendrick_?” Billy ignores him, keeps chewing. Steve nudges at his knee with his foot. Billy swats his foot away and brushes his jeans off as if he wasn’t sitting on the grimiest bus roof ever. “It’s something dorky, isn’t it? It’s _totally_ something dorky, I can see it all over your face.”

“Stop talking or I’ll shove my glove in your mouth.” Billy aggressively starts chewing the jerky then he hides his pink-cheeked face behind the paperback.

“You’re a big, short-stack dorky dork.” Steve _sings_ and pokes the paperback which means he’s poking Billy’s face and he can _hear_ Billy grumbling and it might actually be him growling. Only animals and Billy Hargrove growl.

Billy slaps the book down and glares, blue eyes on fire and Steve feels any bit of crumminess that lingered in him vanish.

Billy’s back. Steve’s happy to see him. The world’s gone cuckoo bananas and Steve thinks he might like it better this way.

“I’m _not_ short. I’m as tall as you, fuck-face.” Billy pokes Steve in the chest. “And you better not be calling me fat ‘cause I’ll shove you off this bus.”

Steve holds up his hands. “ _Big_ —not fat. Chill. And also, like, I _am_ taller by, _like_ , a foot. At least. A foot and a half. You’re so short, I can’t see that far down.” Steve says. “And most importantly, I think you and Dustin should be best friends.”

“Hard pass and fuck you and I don’t know what a _Dustin_ is and I don’t want to know.”

“I had to buy him _so many hats_ because of you. I’m broke now, by the way.” Steve says.

“Seem to be doing just fine, Richie Rich.”

“Are you— “ Steve considers not asking this, but Billy is smiling and laughing and Tommy’s still breathing. “Do you feel better?”

Steve’s never been smooth in his life, apparently. Billy stops laughing to give him a look.

Billy clucks his tongue at him and says, “truth or dare?”

Steve hums as though his answer will be anything other than—“truth.”

“My book—you got it?’

“The book I just gave you? Maybe you _do_ have a fever.”

“You know what book.”

“There’s like _a lot_ of books. At least a hundred. Maybe even two hundred, I’ve never counted. Not gonna. I got things to do.”

Billy’s struggling to keep his _I mean business, buster_ frown from breaking into a _I hate that we’re friends_ smile. “But it’s _my_ book.”

“It’s the _library’s_ book.”

“And it’s got my name all over it.”

“I know. You’re a real dweeb, Hargrove. Who the hell reads a book more than once?”

Billy groans and then he’s flinging himself backward to lie back on the roof, his head lands with a THUD that has him sitting right back up, holding the back of his head, hissing out, “ _fucking—shit balls_.”

Steve reaches out, stopping before he touches him, his hand hanging dumbly in the air.

“You okay?”

Billy nods, his hand still on his head.

“What happened?” Steve says. Billy glances at him, but stays quiet. Steve can only take so much of this. “Dude, just tell me. You can’t be all _mysterious_ about everything.”

“Look who’s talking.” Billy says. At Steve’s pout—Steve’s got a very good pout—Billy gives in. “Just being my usual charming self.” Billy rolls his eyes. “I hit my head. I got—dizzy and shit. I needed something for my headache, okay?”

“Okay.” Steve says.

Billy’s story is too vague, but Steve goes with it and he settles on it this time, reaches out and doesn’t stop or hesitate, goes slow so Billy won’t flinch and if he wants to he can just smack Steve’s hand away. Not a big deal. Win or lose, it’s okay.

Steve cups the back of Billy’s head, focusing on how soft Billy’s curls are, how they’re still wet with sweat and cool from the breeze and how when he pushes his fingers through all the curls to touch the sore spot where Billy got hurt, the heat is striking and the curls tangle around and in between his fingers.

He rubs gently at the back of Billy’s scalp, watching Billy’s face to see if he winces. Billy slips from shock to wary to—his eyelids turn heavy, not quite closing, but almost. His lashes fan out thick on his pink cheeks. Slowly his shoulders begin to slump, dropping, relaxing, hands unclenching and then open and loose on his lap.

Steve goes from rubbing to lightly combing through Billy’s hair with his fingers, something his mom used to do for him, soaking in the comfortable quiet between them. He does it over and over and the longer Billy doesn’t pull away the more Steve can’t help but reach for _more_.

Thoughtlessly, he fists Billy’s curls and tugs slightly.

Billy gasps sharply, his eyes clenching shut, mouth hanging open just enough to get Steve’s heart hammering and doing the dumb dumb _dumbest_ thing of gripping Billy by his nape. His skin is warm and sticky with cooling sweat.

“Sorry about your head.” Steve says. Wakes himself up. Shakes the heat off and embraces the cool air around them, hoping it snows soon. He wants to freeze himself.

He lets go of Billy. Has to pry his hand away, but he manages to do it without embarrassing himself then fidgets with his _dumb dumb dumb_ hands in his lap and touches the earring in his pocket, relieved to find it’s still there.

Billy opens his eyes slowly. Big and blue and looking at Steve like he’s strange and he is, Steve gets that.

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do it.” Billy says.

“I’m sorry about Tommy too.”

Billy flicks Steve’s knee. “You _definitely_ didn’t do that.”

Steve did. Tommy had baited Billy and it worked. He’d done it on purpose and it was Steve’s fault.

“You ever just—“ Steve licks his lips. His mouth is dry. He needs to buy some chapstick. Billy’s the only guy who doesn’t have cracked lips. “Do you ever just want everything to stop? Like you can’t keep up anymore and it’s—it’s too much, you know?”

Billy frowns and Steve backtracks immediately. He forces out a laugh.

“That was a stupid thing to say.” Steve says. “Never mind. Ignore me. I’m being dumb.”

“Harrington.” Billy grips Steve by his arm and squeezes, looking down at the junkyard. “You’re not _dumb_. People are just assholes.” Billy bites his lip then says, “Sometimes, but most of the time I just—I wanna rip things off like a bandaid.”

Steve swallows, his throat going tight. “Yeah.”

 

—

 

In the camaro, Steve holds up the Cheerio from the footwell, presenting it to Billy.

Billy stares at it, lip curled up in disgust, then looks at Steve.

“If you start singing _Piano Man_ , you’re walking back.”

“But it’s nine o’clock on a Saturday.” Steve says, tossing the Cheerio out the window. “The regular crowd shuffles in, there’s an old man sitting next to me, makin’ love to his tonic and gin—”

Billy presses his forehead to the steering wheel and hits the horn.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I really did try to write a shorter chapter. I don't know what happened.
> 
> Billy and Steve are such dorks. It's great.
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com) and [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/cannibear)


	3. “Hold on to your ridiculous pants, Hargrove.” [3/6]

Steve dreams about the bruises on Tommy’s neck darkening, turning into cuts with tiny teeth inside. Neck unwinding. Head splitting open. Blossoming.

At the junkyard, Billy's lying on his back in the dirt with come on his hand, between his fingers. Thick white strings that catch the sunlight. Sticks and leaves tangled in wet curls. Clothes covered in mud. Eyes so bright Steve’s blinded.

Billy’s smiling, breaking under the weight of his anger, sinking into the dirt. Tells Steve to _get over yourself_ when he reaches to help.

Static’s in his ear then Dustin’s voice.

Steve rolls over in bed, the sheets sticking to his skin and the blankets heavy on top of him. A sick weight settles at the bottom of his stomach. He’s hard. Aching to touch himself. He’ll shoot off if he just _thinks_ about it. Cups himself and doesn’t move his hand just for a second to chase after that nice feeling. Lets go when he hears the static start up again.

He grabs the walkie-talkie out of the drawer quick. The air outside his blankets is _cold_ and he shivers, has goosebumps on his arms just from the two second trip to his side table.

Dustin’s saying something. Probably his name. Steve’s not awake. Isn’t planning to be. All of his lamps are on and he has to squint through the sleep sticking to his eyes to read the clock—five in the morning on Saturday.

Steve yanks his blankets back over his head to huddle back into the warmth underneath. Regrets ever giving in about the walkie talkies.

Steve holds the gadget with both his hands, curls up around it under the covers. Listens to the static and nearly falls back asleep. They’ve changed the frequencies. It’s supposed to be better. It is. Sometimes.

“ _I was thinking—_ “ Dustin says through static and the grogginess keeping Steve from finding the button to shut the device off. Perfectly coherent. Words Steve can understand. Dustin and thinking. A combination that has always led to trouble and saving the world.

But it’s five in the morning. Steve’s only slept for two hours after staying up all of last night.

He groans, a small, weakened by life sort of sound. He wants to sleep. He sort of wants to cry. _It’s too early._

“ _—What if I use a flat-iron? Over._ ”

After a serious stare down with the walkie-talkie that didn’t ask to be put through this either, Steve fumbles to find the button he’s supposed to press to talk.

“It’s five in the morning, Dustin.” Steve says. Voice low. Scratchy. Dragging. Tongue fat and dry, licking at his chapped lips. Tired in a way only a high school senior can be.

“ _Steve—you have to say ‘over’ when—“_

“It’s five, Dustin, _it’s five o’clock._ In the morning. Why are you doing this to me?”

There’s a pause and the silence blossoms like Tommy’s head and it’s much more difficult to keep his head in the tight, dark, weighted down crawl space underneath his blankets now. Steve nudges them down to below his chin. The walkie-talkie poking out on the pillow next to him.

The walkie-talkie crackles.

“ _I’m sorry, were you finished? I couldn’t tell. Over._ ”

Five’s a no good, damnable time most mornings, but in the winter, when you’re cozy and as happy as you’re ever going to get in between the sheets, it’s the worst. It’s just a gross time to be awake when his bed and his dreams are the only actual warmth anywhere in the entire state of Indiana.

Getting woken up by a thirteen year old to talk about his hair isn’t acceptable. That’s for _after_ Steve’s gotten more than two hours under his belt. After he’s jerked off. After the end of the world has already kick started and they need him to swing a bat.

“I’m going to murder you. Later. Like, when I’m not asleep and shit.” Steve says, half-murmuring it, already closing his eyes.

The bed’s warm and soft. He stretches his legs. Cracks his back, his ankles. Wiggles his toes. He’s going to live the rest of his life in this bed and no one is going to say otherwise. It’ll be great.

“ _You know, this is why the rest of the party won’t talk to you on here. The attitude. Like, atrocious, my dude. Over._ ”

“God bless those quiet little fucks.” Steve cracks an eye open just enough to squint and spot the on/off switch. “Murder you later. _Over._ ”

He switches the walkie-talkie off. Pushes it off the bed till it drops on the floor with a thud that’s _way_ too loud for the house at this hour. His dad probably heard it downstairs and won’t care what Steve’s up to, will just be annoyed at Steve for reminding him he’s here.

The Snowball dance is tonight. Steve’s a rotten fairy godmother happy to bury his face in the drool spot on his pillow over talking down the nervous kid who’s going to his first dance.

Five o’clock in the _morning_.

_Jesus Christ._

Serves Dustin right.

 

—

 

His mom drives him to pick up his beemer at Joe Senior’s shop. Biking’s too dangerous with the ice on the road—is what his mom said—but, really, Steve hadn’t made it to the garage where his bike is parked in time to side step her offer completely by avoiding her _completely_.

His timing’s been off lately. Something’s up. It’s December, which is, objectively, the worst time of the year. The cold’s gotten to his head. It’s almost Christmas. No Wheeler house to run off to and avoid the usual Harrington Family Celebrations.

The other shoe’s going to drop and it’s going to land right on his face and do worse damage than Jonathan and Billy and eighteen years of Harrington Christmases combined.

In the seven minute drive it takes to get downtown—thanks to every traffic light going red that personally wants to watch Steve suffer—his mom manages to destroy any bit of excitement he may have had for winter break.

He _will_ be going to the country club with his dad to _golf_ and possibly to _join_ since he is eighteen and it’s _what the Harrington men do in Indiana_ and she’s already bought him the _appropriate outfit_ that fits for this season’s fashion and Steve _really should_ get all his old clothes gathered up so she can donate them already and she’s also gone ahead and made an appointment with a friend for his senior photo and Steve _really_ needs to start thinking about what he’ll wear and what _mood_ he’d like to project and have _preserved_.

She says, _open to life’s possibilities would look wonderful on you_.

Steve says, _okay?_

By the time she’s pulling into the small parking lot outside the shop, Steve’s sitting so low in his seat his knees are practically touching his ears.

She fusses with his hair and Steve ducks away. He gets another kiss on the cheek and another one blown at him to send him off when he’s out of the car, leaving her and everything else that makes him feel cramped in this town behind.

Doomed.

That’s the sensation pulling his shoulders down is. He’s got no idea what he’s doing anymore and it doesn’t matter because he’s _doomed._

Two weeks with his parents.

That’s a lot. That’s too much to even think about.

So he doesn’t.

Joe senior’s a burly man in his seventies, standing a foot shorter than Steve and four times as wide with hands bigger than Steve’s head. He claps his hand on Steve’s back when he sees him, knocking him off his feet. Like everyone else in Hawkins, he’s known Steve since before Steve was born.

He holds the keys out in his hand, but doesn’t actually let Steve take them, not before he’s gone through the usual list of niceties—what Steve’s plans for the future are, what his old man is up to these days, boy does time fly by and _boy_ does Steve looks stick-thin and _really should_ be eating more red meat, _might finally give you some hair on that chest._

Joe senior doesn’t really wait for Steve to answer, just barrels through them.

Steve wouldn’t mind so much if Joe senior actually cared—-so Steve lets the old man ramble and waits him out. He’s not going to do this today. _Nope_. He’s clutching onto a good mood that not even seven minutes alone with his mom could completely kill off.

His parents are going to a party out in Indianapolis.

He’ll have the house to himself until tomorrow.

He’s got his car back and nothing to do until five when he’s meeting up with Dustin.

He’s not about to let Joe senior land the finishing blow.

As politely and quickly as he can to avoid any future calls to his dad that would lead to more one-sided conversations, Steve gingerly takes his keys with a _thank you_ and flees.

Spotting the BMW poking out of the open garage of the shop, Steve starts grinning and runs up to it. Smooths a hand down the roof to the door handle. It’s been washed and waxed and looks as gorgeous as ever.

“Daddy’s back, baby.” Gives the roof a kiss. Nearly wraps his arms around as much as the beemer as he can with all this happiness creeping its way back into him.

The beemer’s gotten a fresh spritz of that new car smell scent and it’s _nice_ and has Steve breathing deep, pressing his nose into the upholstery for a few deep whiffs. In the backseat is a Snickers wrapper Steve definitely didn’t leave there two weeks ago. The dents from the body have been smoothed out. The paint’s been filled in. The mud’s been scrubbed off the floor mats and upholstery. Every inch of it sparkles.

The ole dependable BMW is rolling on four brand new wheels. She’s good as new. Already paid for. Has a full tank of gas. He’s got his legs back.

Sitting behind the wheel for the first time in weeks has his blood thumping to drive and keep going, who the hell cares where. Turns the key in the ignition and vibrates along with the thrum of the engine. The sound’s not wild like the camaro’s, but it’s _his_ and the beemer can move just as well as any jacked up American muscle car.

Steve drums his fingers on the wheel and just listens. The engine. The cars passing by in the street. His own breathing. Feels the car underneath him.

Steve pulls out a cassette from his jacket. Pre-set to the first song he wants to listen to. Pushes the tape in and cranks the volume up. Slips on his ray-bans. Gives Joe senior a thumbs up when he turns onto the street.

He’s got his four wheels back and the interstate open to him. The Boss sings, _you can't start a fire/you can't start a fire without a spark/this gun's for hire/even if we're just dancing in the dark_.

Finally, Steve drives.

 

—

 

Steve takes a complicated route out of Hawkins to avoid _any_ connection with Cherry Lane. Only a little passed nine in the morning. He can’t imagine Billy’s awake or driving around Hawkins at this hour.

But there were those nights when Steve had heard the camaro roaming through town.

Maybe Billy can’t sleep like Steve can’t.

Maybe the camaro’s not just a car for Billy, it’s a way out of a lonely house and out of a town that doesn’t sit right no matter how hard Steve tries to pretend it does. Maybe Billy feels it too.

There’s no flash of powder blue or the wild rev of the camaro going around a corner. Steve has plans and being seen with his car back in shape and back on the road would just make things complicated.

Steve will tell Billy tonight. It’s the right thing to do. He can’t go relying on the guy forever. That’d just be _weird._ He’s already let his rep go to shit. Billy’s going to drop his ass sooner than later. Who’s Steve Harrington anyways if he’s not popular or dating a girl?

He can’t remember.

He’s pretty sure he wasn’t this sad sack when he was ten. Has to be more than the guy who looks out for a bunch of nerds. He used to be really into baseball. He had, like, _five_ posters of Mike Schmidt pinned to his wall growing up. He hasn’t actually _watched_ a baseball game in a while—years—but he could. Got nothing else to do.

So he’ll tell Billy. Tonight. That’s the plan.

_Right._

 

—

 

Steve goes through the McDonald’s drive-thru and orders a Big Mac and a chocolate shake with two large fries. Eats all of it, getting grease and salt all over the steering wheel. Bops his head to both sides of _Born in the U.S.A._ and loops back to _Dancing in the Dark_. He drives to a shady red bricked, squat-bit of a building that has tinted windows with bars over them just outside Louisville. There’s only a neon sign in the window that says they’re _open_.

Last year Tommy had turned eighteen before Steve and they’d driven all the way out here just so they could buy a couple of smut rags that were _new_ and hadn’t been flipped through by twenty other guys, no crinkled up, sticking together pages.

Tommy had heard about the store from his older brother. More _variety_ than the gas station. Videos too.

There’s a place in Hawkins, a specialty store that’s not just a measly little stand against the wall at the ARCO that only has _Playboys_. The sort of place you get dared to walk into when you’re fourteen and then get kicked out within two minutes.

Steve had managed three minutes and twenty-four seconds before he was spotted. He’d lasted _way_ longer than Tommy.

Neither one of them had felt like letting the entire town know _what_ they were jerking off to. Some things are _private_. Everyone knows everyone’s parents and of the conversations Steve can possibly have with his own parents, that one is _never_ going to happen.

And it’s not like anywhere in Hawkins sells the stuff Steve’s looking for. He’s got his skin magazines with nothing but girls already. This place, though, has a _variety_ , probably the only place in all of Indiana, and Steve wants to know.

Eleven is too early to be walking into a sex shop and Steve’s not the only car parked in the plaza so. _So._

Steve has his hand on the door handle and takes a second to remind himself _it’s just porn_ and takes his ray-bans off and clips them to the visor. Walking in wearing a pair of sunglasses would make the entire situation feel a little more perverted than it really is.

 _It’s just porn_.

Inside, the carpet’s mauve and so are the walls. Bob Dylan’s playing on the speakers. It’s stuffy and smells like the candles his mom likes to burn whenever she’s having a stressful day. The door rings when he opens it. Loud. Makes Steve wince and look around like everyone knows what he’s come here for, like he’s getting caught with his hands down his pants.

A few people are inside, mostly men and one woman, but no one looks his way.

Unlike last time, though, the clerk’s a girl who doesn’t look much older than Steve. She waves at him without looking up for more than a quick glance. She has a thick book open on the counter. Her name tag says _Charlene_. She has pink hair. Behind her is a giant poster of a naked woman with her legs spread.

Steve can feel himself heating up, blushing like some virgin. One foot in and he’s flustered. Billy would walk into a place like this with his head held high without an ounce of shame or embarrassment. Steve can do that too. Totally. Easy.

So Steve clears his throat. Smiles at Charlene who isn’t paying him any attention. Turns on his heel down the first aisle by the door.

The place is tiny. Just a handful of aisles jammed pack with _stuff_. Roomy enough for a handful of people to be in there without every having to make eye contact.

He can only vaguely remember where he and Tommy had spotted the magazines that were all oiled up men without a girl in sight. He has his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. This isn’t his first time doing this, but it feels like it and now he’s gone shy, crawling up into himself. Hunched over and feeling weird to the bone.

He goes up and down the aisles, avoiding the other people. That seems like the polite thing to do in places like this. Walks fast, but not _rushing_ like he _needs_ anything even though he did drive nearly an hour to get here and it’s not even noon yet. _Christ_.

Passing Hustlers and Playboys and Gallerys, VHS tapes with topless women on the covers, _clamps_ , dildos that just look too big for anyone, a beaded curtain leading somewhere and hiding something that can’t see daylight in a place like this, Steve winds his way to the corner where there’s not a woman in sight, sweating and red faced and winded.

Except for the one woman in the place that doesn’t work here.

Steve makes a quick u-turn out of the aisle to pick up a random VHS tape. A Three’s Company parody.

He sets the tape back down after a thorough read through of the back. The woman playing Janet looks _just_ like Joyce DeWitt and the resemblance has gotten him all jumbled. He puts it down. Focuses. Waits the heat in his cheeks out till it’s not so much a wild fire as it is a cozy campfire to roast marshmallows.

The woman is still in the aisle. Taking her time.

Steve’s got shit to do today. He’s not about to spend his entire morning in a stuffy porno shop.

 _Fuck this_.

He rounds the corner, determined. Makes himself look at everything there is. Goes tense with that determination to see everything he can. Clenches his jaw. Holds himself tight and still.

The magazines and tapes aren’t all that much different. Just with naked men. Muscular men. Thin men. Men with mustaches. Clean shaven men with cut jaws. A lot of leather. Alone. _Together._ A lot of men _together._

When he’d come here with Tommy he hadn’t given this section of the store much more than a glance to know what it was. He doesn’t think he did. Maybe he did. Maybe he just tried to not look that way too much. Maybe he’s looked at the other guys in the locker room and never could admit to it. Not in his head. Not until Billy.

He was sure Tommy hadn’t seen any of it. Tommy would’ve cracked jokes about _all this homo shit_ if he’d noticed. Steve would’ve laughed. Made a couple of jokes too.

 _Fucking stupid,_ that’s what Steve is.

He crosses his arms. The longer he stands here the more aware he is of the woman in the aisle, of how she might see him, what she could think of him, of the clerk, of the other men in the store who _aren’t_ in this section looking at naked men and trying to find _something_. Steve doesn’t care. He shouldn’t care.

He starts to fidget. Clutches at the sleeves of his jacket. It’s too warm in here. There are so many tapes and magazines. So many different _men_ to look at.

The itch of being noticed or called out is growing and urging him to get a move on. Pick something and leave. Stop acting like some freak.

They wouldn’t sell magazines of _this stuff_ if it was _weird_. People make it. People buy it. Steve's just one of those _people_ now.

Steve paces up and down the row looking over his options with a growing anxiety. The covers have him going off instinct. Skipping over anything that doesn’t immediately jump out at him. Not touching anything to look closer. Not yet.

But a few do catch his eye and make him do a double take. Slow down. Breath stuttering out.

Blond hair. Curly. A smooth, muscled chest. Strong jaw. _Masculine_. There’s no denying that. He doesn’t really want to anyways.

 _No one knows him here_ , that’s the whole point and buying four magazines with women on the cover isn’t going to hide the one with a guy and _only_ guys inside.

This is awkward and weird and so far out of his comfort zone of playing playing basketball and killing monster—no matter what this is new and none of it matters. They stock it for a reason. Steve’s not the only guy in Indiana buying this stuff. He’s not alone.

He just wants to know. He’s not high. He’s not running off adrenaline this time. He’s got his head on his shoulders and he may not be _smart_ , but he’s bright enough to know he’s got shit to figure out. He’s got all these _things_ flashing through his head because of Billy and it’s taking up so much space, pushing everything else out and he just—

“Fuck it.” Steve says under his breath. Because, really, _fuck it_. Fuck everyone. Fuck Tommy for figuring this out and not telling him. People are assholes, no matter what.

More and more Billy’s in his head, chiming in to tell him all sorts of things. _People are just assholes._

 

—

 

Charlene rings him up, keeps her book open with her elbow and does it one handed. Her nails are painted pale pink, almost white to match the lace choker around her neck.

Steve’s already slid the money across the counter. Four magazines and a VHS tape. Tries to look as bored as her. He can’t decide if it would be more awkward to buy porn from a girl or gay porn from the middle aged guy who was here last year. Either way he’s hot in the face. And the shoes. Raising the temperature of the entire store all on his own.

She slides everything into a brown paper bag. Creases the opening closed with two long, perfectly manicured sharp acrylic nails. Slides it back to Steve, but keeps her hand on the bag and for the first time in the entire interaction looks him in the eye and Steve can’t find an escape, frozen to the spot.

Sweats starts to percolate on his temples. He’s soaked through to his jacket. It’s like the middle of summer with all these layers. December and he’s _sweating_. Gross.

Instinctively, Steve smiles. Feels more like a wince. Anxiety spiking so hard he’s about to rocket out through the door.

“Be careful.” Charlene says, leaning over the counter just enough for her quiet, oddly deep and delicate voice to carry over to Steve. “There are sharks out there. Real messed up shit for our kind, you know? Mind yourself, yeah?”

Steve nods. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but the words stick.

 

—

 

Three exits short of Hawkins, Steve’s pulled over to the side of some deserted backwoods road in the middle of the forest. Noon on a Saturday. No one’s going anywhere in Indiana. Steve can’t focus on driving, can’t even focus enough to get nervous about being _alone_ in the woods this close to Hawkins, not with that brown paper bag in the car sitting right next to him, sliding across the seat at the slightest turn.

He turns the car off. Rips into the bag and pulls out the magazine on top to look through. Just for a little while. The first five pages. That’s all. A quick peek then he’ll go home.

Steve looks through it cover to cover and then back. Props it up on his steering wheel to free up one hand. Turns the pages carefully, anticipation heavy in his gut every time he flips to the next page, sees the next photograph. Makes his fingers twitch, crinkling the corners at the sight of the next man posed to get him hard.

And he is hard. He’s so hard. His dick’s pushing at his zipper, his jeans are too tight and he can hardly sit still, squirming in his seat. Palms at himself, just to give himself some friction, get rid of some of that ache in his balls, that needing pressure.

The middle of the day and there may not be cars driving by, but he’s got enough sanity left inside him to know he can’t start jerking off right here. Too much could go wrong. He can’t be caught with _these_ in his car.

There’s one photograph towards the end. A tan brunette sucking a dick. Plump red lips just kissing the head, wet and shiny, lips and cockhead a matching glossy. The man had it in his mouth. The guy’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking up. Mouth open, tongue peaking out. Waiting for it. Wanting it. He looks like he’s in love.

Steve’s touches his own lips. Presses in. Touches the wet space behind his lip, the soft inside of his mouth. Licks at the pad of his finger and tastes salt. Closes his eyes and sucks at his finger, imagines.

He squeezes his dick, tilting his head up and back as much as he can in the car seat to push his hips into his own hand. Billy’s voice is in his ear, slurred and heavy and low and desperate in a way he hasn’t sounded since—broken, saying, _let me suck you_.

Feverish and close to coming in his jeans, Steve imagines what it’d be like to do it. If he’d like it. If he’d be good at it. If this is what Billy had meant by being a _cock thirsty fag_.

 

—

 

At home there’s a note left on the table by the front door telling Steve there’s dinner in the fridge—a crustless quiche—and they’ll _most likely_ be back by tomorrow night. His mom signs it with a smiley face next to her name. _That_ is weird.

Steve stands in the foyer, listening to the silence. It’s the same silence he’s used to. The usual creaks in the house. The heater turning on and becoming a constant hum in the quiet.

His parents are long gone. Steve pulls the paper bag out from under his shirt where it was tucked into the back of his jeans and jerks off bent over the piano with _Blueboy_ open at the centerfold spread out on the fazioli, jacket still on, jeans unzipped just enough to get at his dick.

Two strokes is all it takes, revved up as he is, he’s stripping his dick fast, shooting off everywhere. Jizz getting on the keys. All over his hand. Some lands on the magazine. It’s a mess. He peels off his jacket and uses it to clean.

Feeling overwhelmed and like he’s buzzing, lightheaded and still itching to look more, unable to take his eyes off the images in the magazine for longer than a handful of seconds now that has has the time and he can—the heat in the house becomes too much.

Steve goes outside and sits by the pool. The cover’s been pulled on. The lounger chair is icy. It’s good.

He goes through every magazine, every page, carefully and anxious to see everything there is to see, like they’re the newest issues of _Rolling Stone_ and _Billboard_ , checking his watch only after he’s flipped to the last page of the last magazine, _Physique Pictorial_ to find out it’s been nearly two hours. His fingertips are frozen, but he’s not shivering. The hard on he’s been sporting _aches_.

He goes back to the beginning. There’s a black and white photograph of two men kissing. Softly. Almost sweetly. One man’s cupping the other’s face. Both of their eyes are closed. Closed mouth and smiling. Not something he’d expect to see in a skin mag. It makes his stomach flip, chest go all tight.

Steve comes with the magazine lying on his chest, feet up, knees bent, curled in on himself. He wipes his hand off on his jeans and throws them into the hamper upstairs. Head gone blank, fuzzy. Filled with a quiet nothing that takes up all the space.

He has to leave for Dustin’s soon. He picks out a new pair of pants, a dark green long sleeve shirt. Sits on his bed with his clothes thrown over his lap with his magazines and his VHS tape he hasn’t had the nerve to watch just yet next to him. Stares blankly at his open bedroom door, down the hall to his parents’ closed door.

Steve wonders if his dad could tell, if that could be what spurred him on to take a step out of Steve’s life. Somehow, he knew before Steve did. There’s something about Steve that’s—and his dad saw that and—just _knew_.

There was a time when Steve would be excited to see his dad and his dad would be excited to see him, happy even.

And then he just—wasn’t.

Steve hides the magazines under his mattress then under the other skin mags that are already there. The VHS tape gets crammed into the back of his closet inside an old shoe box. He’ll watch it later.

Steve showers and does the very basic needs for his hair, nothing flashy. He’ll finish it up at Dustin’s. The bike ride there will just ruin it anyways, no reason to waste the product. Gets himself off one last time. Spits on his palm. Rushes it. Jerks off in the sink, clutching at the faucet, knees shaking, knocking into the vanity.

His reflection is flushed. Looks like he’s just gotten laid. His head’s packed with erect cocks and handsome men. Dazed with it. Off kilter. He doesn’t know how he’ll get downstairs without breaking his neck.

A year ago he would think he’d gone off his rocker. There’s _Hawkins weird_ and then there’s _this_ , but a year ago he wanted to marry Nancy Wheeler, was sure he would. Even thought about buying a ring with the money he has in his savings. He’d propose when Nancy graduated. They’d have kids. He’d get a boring 9-5 office job and he wouldn’t care because he’d have a family to come home to.

Now he’s friends with Billy Hargrove.

Things change. Steve does too.

 

—

 

After weeks of not having to bike through any woods or over any icy roads, now that Steve’s doing it again he’s clenched up, too stiff on the turns, too abrupt with the brakes. The winter wind against his face helps to clear up his head, though. Cool his body down, keep from doing anything embarrassing.

To bike on these old roads that haven’t been paved in decades, Steve has to focus and pay attention to every bump and puddle of sludge he’s pedaling towards on his all too little cramped bike, taking in all the Christmas lights and decorations on the way with only a glance.

At the Henderson’s, the sun starting to set, he parks his bike by the side of the house. Rings the doorbell, sniffling, nose dripping, shoving his hands under his armpits. He’s chilled to the bone. Fingers turned into icicles. He brought three cans of hairspray and forgot his gloves.

It’s a relief to be frozen solid rather than to show up at Dustin’s still amped up. Not a thought in his head, only that tingly, good, sweet relief of not skidding on the ice and crashing and then _probably_ getting eaten by whatever else is lurking around Hawkins.

There’s definitely something else. It’s probably big and hairy and maybe it’s a werewolf with sharp human eating teeth and pointy claws. _Why not._

Steve would be awful to eat. Too stringy. Whatever monster comes for him will hopefully be too disappointed by what Steve has to offer to finish him off.

The Henderson house is out by itself in the woods. A small house with Christmas lights lining its roof and a wreath hanging on the front door. His mom would call it _quaint_ , while Steve would call it _cozy_ and mean just that.

Except for the woods surrounding the property—they loom. They have a presence like they do at Steve’s house, anywhere in Hawkins. He’s aware of them. The slight rustling from the wind. The few brown and orange leaves still left, cracking as they fall off their branches. Dried, dying bark soaking up noise, making it all too quiet outside.

It’s more unnerving in the winter. Everything is so still, every noise amplified.

Steve stares out at the tree line, his back to the house. Listening.

He can see his breath on the exhale so he cups his hands and breathes on them. Adjusts his backpack on his shoulder. Shoves one hand into his pocket, pinches the stud earring between his fingers, and hits the doorbell again without looking away from the woods.

There’s a _SNAP_ somewhere in the trees.

The front door swings open. It’s Claudia.

“Steve!” She says, coming out in her Christmas tree vest and elf slippers. She wraps him up in a hug. Warm and smelling like home cooked meals, Steve hugs her back with one arm. Awkwardly and with feeling.

“Come in, come in. You’re freezing!” She ushers him inside, closing the door on the forest and whatever is hiding out there.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I had to break up what was going to be chapter 3 because it was over 20k and I refuse to post something that long as a single chapter. This seemed like a good spot to make the split.
> 
> 2\. Hope y'all are doing all right after s3. 
> 
> 3\. I've never been to a sex shop in the 80s in Indiana, so, I'm sorry for any inaccuracies (I tried my best)
> 
> 4\. To clear things up, Steve bikes to the Henderson’s because that way Billy has to pick him up since Billy is still under the impression Steve doesn’t have his car back and Billy still has to drive him around wherever he wants - which includes carpooling to the Snowball Dance. 
> 
>    
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


	4. “Hold on to your ridiculous pants, Hargrove.” [4/6]

The Henderson house is dripping in Christmas Spirit. Santa Claus and reindeers—Rudolph sits on top of the tree—and little helper elves and snowmen themed everything _everywhere_.

Red and green lights strung up on every wall. Stuffed stockings hung on the mantle over the fireplace. Wreaths hung on every single door. A Christmas tree done up in lights and garland, branches weighed down heavy with handmade ornaments by Dustin and Claudia and the other nerds. Steve even spots a star covered in gold glitter with Max’s name on it.

Anywhere his eyes land is Christmas and Saint Nick’s unnerving jolly grin aimed at him.

Tews is wearing a tiny version of Claudia’s vest. Claudia must have sewn it herself. _Dustin_ must have a vest like that.

Steve kind of _really_ needs to know if he does.

Claudia ushers Steve inside, hangs his coats up by the door and goes into the kitchen to hurry him back a Santa Claus belly shaped mug of steaming hot chocolate that’s more marshmallows than it is cocoa, sits him on the floral couch between two hand embroidered pillows.

One says, _home is where the heart is_ and the other says, _and also where the snacks are_.

She takes the extra step to throw a snowflake patterned wool blanket around him and tucks it in around his waist. She tells Steve to _warm those bones up_ and _I would have picked you up, you poor thing_. She fiddles with his hair, tries to fix it by patting it down.

Claudia’s a full head shorter than Steve, a tiny woman like Joyce Byers, and she’s her own battalion of shining motherly affection Steve has no defense against, no chance of withstanding, no know-how on _how_ to react to all this _caring_ and attention that’s genuine and second nature and has no hidden meaning.

All he has is a wide-eyed smile and a few hundred quiet and bashful red faced _thank you’s_. Outside of any of that, Steve’s left to flounder on plush rose covered cushions, sipping at his drink and avoiding making eye contact with any of the dozens of Santas around him.

The hot chocolate is thick and tingly sweet. The marshmallows gooey, melting together in a big blob on top that Steve bites at. It’s delicious and sugary and _chocolatey_ and irons out the jittery uneasiness from whatever _thing_ may be outside or may just be living in Steve’s head and has been living there since last year, takes a spot on the back burner with one sip and the next sip eases the cramped, indigestion of knowing new _things_ about himself he’s not sure what to do with but knows there’s so much he wants to do and the sip after that one sits too hot in his mouth and burns his tongue and his gums and teeth and fills him up like a hug from the inside.

Heats his head. Chills him out. Shuts his mind up.

Steve’s sinking into the couch, into the pillows, fingers thawing holding the hot porcelain and toes wiggling and stretching relaxed and cozy in his shoes. The scent of Nutmeg and allspice and cinnamon have seeped into the cushions, the wool of the blanket, the walls, the air. A few more minutes of this—just one minute, half a minute, maybe—will be enough for him to fall asleep.

Billy will have to drive the kids to the dance all on his own. There’s more than a solid chance Dustin’s going to say _something_ and he’ll be walking his way to the middle school or hitching a ride in the camaro’s trunk while Steve naps on the couch.

 _Whatever it is_ out there is just in Steve head. That’s all. An animal. A branch snapping from the cold. The gate’s been shut.

 _This_ is hot chocolate and Billy will be here soon anyways. Billy’s got his back.

_It’s all fine._

 

—

 

It’s a big monumental _frame a photograph and put it over the mantle_ kind of night.

“Proper documentation is _important_.” Claudia says and opens up her polaroid camera and positions Steve and a hunched over pink-faced Dustin to stand in front of the fireplace for a picture. She takes a few, waves each one in the air while she directs the next polaroid, Dustin’s smile growing more strained as the flashes go off, turning into a full-body grimace.

“My little Dusty’s first dance.” Claudia croons over Dustin, pinching and squeezing his cheeks while Dustin’s face flashes red, glaring at her and trying to push her hands away leading to Claudia raining pink kisses all over his face.

“Mom, _oh my god_. Not in front of _Steve_ —he’s right there!—“ Dustin squeals, scrubbing at his face while Claudia hugs him and starts to sniffle.

She dabs at her eyes and nose with a gingerbread man patterned handkerchief.

Steve watches, standing off to the side with Tews, awkwardly and fond and missing many things, there’s a pull inside of him tugging for his own mom.

She never acted like _that_ with him. Any kiss was planted carefully. Every touch collected and thought through and when it _wasn’t_ it’s clear how much of an oddity Steve’s grown up to be with how she’ll hesitate, will only touch him _lightly_ and _carefully_.

Steve’s the strange thing living in her house, stranger by the day. She’d faint if she knew where he’d driven off to this morning, if she saw what was under his bed or caught on to any of the thoughts that have swum laps inside his head. She’ll keel over when she finds out he can’t get into any of the colleges she wants him to get into. She’ll _freak_ if she finds out about Steve. His dad—well. You know.

He catches Dustin’s mortified eyes and grins to make sure Dustin sees he’s watching.

Claudia gives Steve a party horn and Dustin sighs, pulls one out of his pocket, blows it sadly and tired, the unfurling pathetically and falling limp at the end. Steve hooks his arm around Dustin’s neck to blow the horn in his face.

Steve doesn’t have to try and pretend to be enthusiastic like the last time he was here and there were three _Star Wars_ movies in his future for the day. He’d be happy to wear a matching evergreen vest right now.

Claudia then hands Dustin Tews to hold for a photo with all four of them. _A family photo._ Attaches a black clip to the side of the camera and winds it up, sets the camera down on a high shelf and moves Steve and Dustin closer. Claudia stands between them, a hand on both their shoulders.

It’s a lot. A couple of words and Steve’s hit in the chest hard.

Steve blinks the feelings away quick. It’s been a long day where he could barely feel the ground under his feet half the time. Claudia is just the _nicest_. Like, the actual _nicest_.

“Are you crying?” Dustin whispers at him, weirded out, probably. Steve just sniffs. Smiles for the camera. Whatever. He's totally got his shit together. He's fine.

He's so totally good.

The Hendersons are really fucking him up.

Tews starts hissing at Steve and when the flash goes off Tews swings a claw at Steve’s arm, he barely managed to get out of the way in time. She jumps down, meows, and jumps on top of the back of the recliner to glare Steve down.

The polaroid captures probably one of the worst faces Steve’s ever made in his life. Somehow his eyes are going in two directions. His hair’s _truly_ horrifying, going in every direction. He barely _looks_ like himself.

_Pretty boy, I ain’t._

He’s about to ask her to throw it away, toss it into the fireplace. Then Claudia is adding all the polaroids she took on top of a thick stack. Shows Steve with a wobbly bottom lip photographs of Dustin throughout all of today, starting from when he woke up this morning. His eyes are half closed and he’s wincing at the camera, his walkie-talkie clutched to his chest like a teddy bear.

It’s a cute photograph. Like, Steve gets why Claudia keeps squeezing Dustin’s cheeks and smushing his face so much. Steve sort of wants to pinch him too.

Dustin covers his face with his hands, whines out, “ _Mom, no_.”

Steve wouldn’t be a good friend if he didn’t poke at him _a little_ more.

“Little Dusty, you excited for your big dance?” Steve says, sweet as Claudia Henderson’s now All Time Best in the World hot chocolate.

Dustin’s shoulders reach his ears as he cringes, mutters out, “let me _live,_ Harrington.”

 

—

 

“Tell no one what you’ve seen here.” Dustin warns Steve, hand on the doorknob leading to his room.

He waits for Steve to agree that _no_ , he will not be telling anyone. Dustin doesn’t need to ask.

So Steve nods. Serious. _Very_ serious.

For their movie marathon they’d kept to the living room. Dustin had told Steve he _wasn’t ready_ for what was in Dustin’s room. He’d said it very seriously. There had been too much eye contact. Steve could smell the garlic on his breath from the pizza. Way too close.

Steve has a quick and alarming flashback to Dart and hopes Dustin really has learned his lesson and isn’t hiding another monster in his room, save Steve from another trip to the dark and creepy basement and having to fist raw meat for an afternoon.

That day, Steve had let what Dustin said hang between them and go with the rolling credits rather than ask what that could possibly, actually mean.

He remembers being thirteen. It’s not so different from being eighteen, only Steve has a car and doesn’t have to rely on hand-me-downs anymore.

Quickly, he runs through hiding everything he bought today. Replays the motions in his head. Under the mattress. Under the other magazines. In the shoe box in the back of his closet. The receipt he’d thrown out the window on the freeway.

“Welcome to my abode.” Dustin opens his door.

The walls are covered with paper connected by blue and white strings. It’s the Byers’ house when Will had been possessed by the Mind Flayer except it’s not tunnels, but pages and pages of hand written notes and colored pencil drawings of maps and people in armor and big hats Steve immediately recognizes as the drawings Will had brought with him to Steve’s house.

The smell catches him though. Has him pausing with one foot raised, sniffing. It’s definitely _not_ the body odor stink Steve was expecting.

“It’s the campaign!” Dustin says. “We’re starting soon and it’s going to _rock_ your freaking socks off, dude. Like all of your socks—you will not be able to wear socks ever again because they will be rocked off that hard, so don’t, like, tell anyone. _Seriously_. And I’m trusting you to not read ahead. This is all,” Dustin gestures at the walls with both hands, “top secret info. So. Keep it on the downlow, you know?”

“Can do.”

“Promise?”

“Totally definitely promise.” Steve says, craning his head back. The pages pinned close to the ceiling have the tiniest writing. Dustin’s system for organizing this is above his pay grade, the different colored string criss-crossing each other goes right over his head.

He has no idea if he’s going to join in on the game, it would be weird. Complicated. Nancy played with them when she was a kid, said it was _fun enough_.

Billy would give him shit for it. Tommy would die laughing if he found out. Being stuck in a room with Mike sounds like actual torture. Getting punched in the face a few times would be more enjoyable.

Steve sighs. Gives Dustin a supportive kind of smile that could mean _maybe_ just as well as meaning _that’s gonna be a big no from me_.

Still, it’s impressive. Must have taken weeks to do it all. Or maybe just a few days for kids like Dustin and Will. Steve’s head starts to spin out of whack from staring so long at so much. He changes course and looks around the rest of the room.

There are clothes thrown on the floor, spilling out of the closet and the drawers under the bed. Lined up on every flat surface in the room are robots and small monster figures Steve’s too old to know, but some of them are familiar and take a minute for him to remember. GI Joe’s and Micronauts—Steve had a few of those, recognizing Acroyear with its big wings and Pharoid right beside it.

Steve hasn’t thought of Pharoid in _years_. His Pharoid was either thrown into the quarry or given away during one of his mom’s cleaning sprees. He’s pretty sure they discontinued them.

Dustin’s _such_ a nerd to have one of these.

The bookcase is stuffed with comics and books that are bigger and thicker than the text books Steve has for his own classes along with VHS tapes that catch Steve’s attention, immediately he wanders over to poke through the titles. One has no label. Steve slides it back into the bookcase and won’t be thinking about it again.

The room is very _Dustin_.

 _Burnt hair_ finally clicks in his head. That’s it. _That’s_ the smell.

Something is up to no good in here.

“Sorry about my mom.” Dustin says. “She gets kind of overly attached and hysterical when it comes to me doing anything.”

“No way, she’s, like, the best mom. I love your mom.” Steve says, searching for any signs of _why_ it smells like burnt hair. “She really likes Christmas though, huh?”

“It’s her _thing_.” Dustin rolls his eyes. “She used to tell me my dad was Saint Nick. I believed her for like a day and then Mike told me Santa wasn’t real—it was a whole thing.”

“That’s pretty shitty even for _Mike_.”

“Yeah, but Mike still apologizes every time he sees a Santa anything, so. It’s kind of hilarious to give him shit for it.”

Dustin clears a pathway through his room. Kicks a few shirts under his bed, throws them into his closet and slams the doors closed before Steve can spot any sign of a matching vest.

He fidgets with the sides of his cap then spins on his foot to face Steve, takes a deep breath and squares up his shoulders.

Steve tosses his backpack on the bed, clinking when it bounces, and prepares himself for the worst.

Thinks, _if the world is ending again, I swear to fucking God—_

Steve can only get his ass kicked so many times in one year before his self esteem just _doesn’t_ bounce back and Steve’s _still_ waiting for it. He’s got shit to do. He’s had his fill of nightmares, he’d like to cut back on the stress of existing just enough to get by.

“Is the world ending?” Steve says, almost wanting to put his hands over his ears.

“No. What? _No_. If something was up, I’d tell you, okay?” Dustin holds the visor of his cap with a pinched expression. “Remember how I called you this morning?”

“Yeah. About that. Five in the _morning_ isn’t a good time for anyone, dude. Like, no one ever, but especially me.”

Dustin ignores him. He whips his cap off and a lock of straight, brown hair flops out and falls to his shoulder, the ends looking crispy. A quarter of Dustin’s curly hair on the right side has met the flat iron.

Steve covers his mouth. The muffled _oh no_ is also ignored and so is the smile he’s trying real hard to keep from coming across any other part of his face.

“It’s not _the entire world could go tits up_ bad, but also if you don’t somehow make it better I’m never going to school or leaving my house ever again and if this isn’t fixed before Max and—and her _brother_ get here I will jump into the quarry, so? _So?_ ”

Steve’s not laughing. He really isn’t. He’s got a _very_ firm foothold on his face right now. He’s schooled it straight. Nothing is slipping passed him. No one has ever been more in control of the front of their head.

“Don’t go quiet on me, doc.” Dustin says.

“That’s—that’s a look. It’s a _look_. That’s new and interesting. Cool. Stylish? Yep.”

“I know it’s bad. Scientifically, objectively, biblically _bad_.”

“You know it's got a certain, sort of, flair?.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it. It’s shit. _It’s shit._ I’ve shitted my head.”

Steve bite the inside of his cheek with his canines. Breathe deep through his nose. Gets that laugh down and stomps on it. Says very slowly, “maybe don’t say that out loud?”

Dustin throws his arms up, tosses his hat. Twitchy and agitated, nerves front and center.

“Just spit it out, Steve. I’m fucked. I fucked up. I flew too close to the sun and fucked myself and any chance I ever had to dance with a girl is _gone_ —I’m so fuckity fucked in the fucking a—“

“— _Dustin Eugene Henderson_ , I will get the soap, young man.” Claudia snaps.

She appears in the doorway, one hand on her hip and under her other arm rolls of wrapping paper.

She frowns at Dustin then smiles apologetically at Steve. “Don’t mind him, he’s a little stressed. He had a bit of an _oopsie_. I told him over and over not to play with my flat iron.”

“Mom, _please_.” Dustin hurriedly shoves his cap on, hiding his newly straightened hair back underneath. “Mom. Mother. _Mom_ , I am asking you for some privacy and if you hold _any_ love for me—“

“—Okay, all right. I just wanted to come by and let you two know dinner’s ready.” Claudia shifts the wrapping paper to hold under her other arm. She says to Steve, rolling her eyes in the same way Dustin does but with a smile, “ _boys_.”

“Don’t I know it.” Steve says.

 

—

 

“Just a little something to get you boys through the night.” Claudia tells them.

On the kitchen table is the biggest pan of macaroni & cheese with sliced up hot dogs and bacon bits mixed in, topped off with breadcrumbs. Every bite greasy and cheesy and salty. The kitchen tiny and cozy with tulip wallpaper and dozens of cookbooks lined up neatly out in the open. _Favorite Recipes of Lutheran Ladies Desserts, 12 Pies Husbands Like Best, The Cheese Cookbook_ , and _Baking is Fun!_ by _the_ Ann Pilsbury.

Steve wants to live here.

Maybe if he asks _really_ nicely. Throws in his puppy dog eyes. Puts some extra oomph in his pout.

He’s no Billy, but he’s not a complete chump.

They sit at the kitchen table eating off plates with mistletoe and what he _thinks_ might be holly painted on the edges. A little television on the corner of the counter plays _Hart to Hart_ , the volume set to low.

Dustin moves the food around on his plate. Steve asks for thirds, stomach filled with gooey hot cheese and salty meats and being treated like he’s part of the Henderson Duo.

Claudia reminisces how Dustin was just _yea big only last week_ and _now_ he’s going to his _first_ dance while Dustin charges on and talks at Steve about anything _not_ dance or his hair related, tries to guess what Steve’s favorite movie in the George Lucas trilogy could be and says it _has_ to be the _Empires Strikes Back_.

Steve’s chest clenches around the bleak pit that’s made up of lonely late night dinners by himself he got used to but never _liked_ and all those meals with his parents filled with stilted conversations where Steve eventually gets laid out on the table and picked at and it’s better than being alone because at least then they were _talking._

This is a mom and a son who love each other and like each other. Who want to spend time together. They’re a home. Steve’s insides twist themselves ugly from how nice all this is yet he’s still embarrassingly borderline _totally and completely, without any doubt_ excited to be included on this Big Night for the Henderson’s. To be wanted and needed with his backpack of hair products and his years of experience.

Being here makes Steve smile like the biggest, happiest dummy in Hawkins at Dustin and Claudia and a glaring, wary Tews—it’s rad as all get out.

 

—

 

The bathroom’s a tight fit for both Steve and Dustin. It’s also mermaid themed. Mermaid paintings on the wall. Mermaids on the shower curtain. A mermaid soap dispenser next to a jar of seashells and sand. The rug is in the shape of a fish. The cover on the toilet is a seascape. The towels have a wave pattern on the edges. There’s a shelf of porcelain mermaids mid-swim.

The only bit of Christmas in here is the Charlie Brown Christmas tree sitting on the back of the toilet. The red ornament wobbles under the vent.

It’s charming. Every inch of this house makes Steve want stay. He doubts his parents would notice. Not for a while. If they find the magazines under his bed, they won’t care if he comes back or not and it’s not like they’d _tell_ anyone.

Claudia seems nice enough to let someone like Steve camp out in the living room.

Steve checks his appearance in the mirror. The tragedy of his hair is a bigger worry than Dustin’s. He’s got an hour before the dance is supposed to start and less than that before Billy’s supposed to arrive.

Dustin’s cap sits on the sink, deflated much like Dustin.

“Do you know how many guys would kill for the volume your hair has? You gotta embrace the curly hair, man. Like, that’s the kinda shit girls go crazy for.”

Dustin scratches at his nose. He’s kept his back to the mirror the entire time. “I wanted to try something different and it didn’t work out. That’s how experiments work.”

“ _Different_ doesn’t mean _flat_. Curls are—fuck, that’s solid shit. That’s gold. You got fuckin’ gold on that big head.”

“Okay, but— _but_ hear me out—“ Dustin says and runs out of the bathroom and comes back with a stack of magazines. Takes the issue of _Seventeen_ off the top and shoves Rob Lowe in Steve’s face.

Not the worst thing to have under his nose, for sure. But, well. Steve stumbles a little. Not exactly prepared for Rob Lowe and his jawline and _face_ to be up front and center like this.

Steve pinches the magazine from him and wipes his forehead off with the back of his hand. He’s starting to sweat a little.

He clears his throat. “Why do you have a _Seventeen_ magazine?”

“Research knows no bounds. And, like, where better to learn about girls than magazines _for_ girls?”

“Good point.” He has _the same exact point_ Steve has hammered into his own head all morning.

Steve stares down at that square jaw and pretty, dark sultry eyes that remind him a little too much of someone else.

He rolls the magazine up and wrings it with both hands. Dustin’s looking miserable at his own reflection.

He has no idea and if Steve can keep his shit together—he never will.

“So.“ Steve says. Taps one end of the rolled up magazine on the counter. “You want to be Sodapop?”

“Steve, who in this entire plain of existence wouldn’t want to be Sodapop Curtis?”

“I don’t know, I kinda liked Dallas. He was pretty cool and—” Steve coughs. Stretches his jaw a little. Moves it along. Unrolls Rob Lowe and sets him back on the stack.

He really just keeps proving Tommy right, which is, hands down, becoming the most annoying thing Tommy’s ever done to him.

He’s going to need to rewatch _The Outsiders_.

“I—“ Dustin’s cheeks go pink. “All right, so, I thought maybe I’d do something like—not _copy_ just, like, in _homage_ to your hair? That was the initial plan and it kind of went in a wonky direction towards the end. I can admit that.”

“Good ole Plan A.” Steve says, feeling things.

“You’re just—you’re the _pretty boy_ and I’m just this—“ Dustin gestures at himself, “— _me_.”

Reading Dustin’s easy. He’s not a kid who hides what he’s feeling all that well. He can be loud and obnoxious and the biggest know-it-all in a room with Mike in it. Steve sees the nerves from the other side of Hawkins and gets his own set of fun new anxieties knowing he’s the one who’s going to have to get Dustin back to his cocky self.

Steve claps Dustin on the shoulder. Gives it a good _you can do this, buddy_ squeeze.

“Never call me _pretty boy_ again.”

The down-and-out pout evaporates from Dustin’s face. He scowls.

“But _he_ can?”

“Do you honestly think he’d listen to me if I told him to do anything?”

“Yes.” Dustin says as though it really _is_ a fact. “You’re _literally_ the only person _any of us_ have seen him listen to without having to threaten him.” Dustin’s close to tugging at his hair, his hands are raised but he stops when he remembers the right side of his head. Accuses Steve by pointing at him.

“You’re friends with that guy, aren’t you? Like actually actual _friends_ with him? Like, even after this bet’s through you’re gonna be all _friendly_ with him and be his _friend?_ ”

Steve, like many things he’s not thinking about and isn’t going to think about, adds _the kids are noticing_ to the pile he’ll be avoiding until he can’t.

“Henderson, you can avoid thinking about the dance all you want, but our ride’s gonna be here soon—so.” Steve taps his watch. Dustin’s mouth snaps shut. Thinks of Billy hunched over at the junkyard. That wrenched out _sorry_ knocking the wind out of both of them. The rust on his glove, the taste of leather, Billy’s red, embarrassed face.

 _Christ_ , Steve hurts. He’s full of hurt for Billy.

“Yeah. We’re friends.” Steve tells him. It’s just a fact. _Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove are Friends._

Dustin’s not happy. Steve doesn’t expect him to be.

Steve sighs. Knocks Dustin in the arm with the lightest punch, more like a flick of his wrist. Can’t let the silence sit for too long. He’s got enough of that everywhere else. The Henderson house is busy and full and everything the Harrington house isn’t.

“You don’t need a flat iron to do your hair like mine. That’s what hairspray is for. Curly hair is _cool_. I know you don’t wanna hear this, but—seriously—look at Billy.”

Dustin shakes his head. “That name _cannot_ be said in this house. It’s _evil._ ”

“Uh huh. You think if I say his name three times, he’ll pop outta the mirror to murder us?”

“Probably.”

“Aren’t you all about sciencey shit?”

“We live in Hawkins.” Dustin says, cupping his hand to his mouth to whisper loud and clear. “Anything is possible. Monsters. _Bears_. Maybe _the person whose name I will not say under the same roof I sleep_ has, like, weird super powers that lets him murder people through mirrors. I don’t know. You don’t know. It could happen.”

“Matter can’t just _appear_ , Henderson, that’s against the _rules_.”

“If he comes out of that mirror, it’s your own damn fault.”

“You gotta get outside more, man. We could play baseball? I bet you could throw a ball if you tried.”

“Who are you talking to, my dude, because it’s not me.”

“I have a spare glove. I got a bat. A regular bat. You, me, and Will—possibly a couple more people who I’m not gonna name. We can do this.” Dustin’s stare is flat. No one wants to play baseball with him. What—ever. “ _Fine_. But, seriously, _look at Billy._ ”

“No thanks.”

“He’s got the same curly hair as you do.”

“And he’s the biggest dick since Troy and,” Dustin pauses to lock the bathroom door, “he _literally_ almost killed Tommy H. _yesterday_ and I can’t believe you didn’t tell me what happened and that I had to hear it from Will. Friends tell friends if they’re about to get in the same car with a guy who strangled someone with their own belt literally yesterday..”

It shouldn’t be a surprise that Dustin knows. It still knocks Steve back. The whole school must be talking about it by now if it’s reached the middle school.

 _A belt_. Steve sucks on his teeth, _fucking yikes._

He hopes that version of the story hasn’t reached Billy.

“He was helping me. He had my back in a fight that got out of hand.” Steve combs his hair back, tugs on it. The stress of being a teen in Hawkins is going to kill him before he ever hits twenty. “And he didn’t use a fucking _belt_.”

“But he still _strangled_ someone?”

“It’s really complicated.” Steve’s not about to blab. Dustin snorts, rolling his eyes too. A double knock out.

“Are you saying that like it’s supposed to make me feel better? Because, Steve, Steven, my man, it doesn’t. At all.”

Steve’s hackles rise—Dustin doesn’t know Billy, won’t budge from his _I hate Billy Hargrove_ stance no matter how many free rides he’s gotten in the camaro. There’s always going to be another one of these conversations where Steve has to say _Billy’s not the literal devil, you know_.

Steve’s not a fan of teenagers and their attitudes.

“Here’s a life lesson for you—literally everyone in high school will be an asshole. Tommy’s an asshole. Jason and Chris—assholes. Gonna save you a lot of time when you go in already knowing that.”

“I know you said not to ask you this anymore, but, like, are you okay?”

“I just—“ Steve huffs. _I’m fine_ isn’t going to work. He’s clearly _not_. “Billy’s—he’s a cool guy. He’s an asshole too, but he helped me out yesterday. He was the only one who did and I need you to get that.”

“I guess.” Though Dustin’s looking doubtful, not believing a word Steve says.

He rolls with it.

“Good. _Good._ “ Steve nods his head, wrung out and relieved. “You can dislike him all you want, whatever dude, but—he still has great hair. It’s the least you can admit to.”

“Oh my god.”

“ _And_ it’s curly like yours.”

“I hate that you’re friends with him so much.”

“ _We can work with that, buddy._ ”

Steve wanders off in his own head.

“Like when it’s all permed up? You know? Tight and foxy? All glammed up? Has that bounce to it? That’s—that’s some really solid, like, _wow_ kind of hair, you know?” Steve says, soldiering on as Dustin mouths _foxy?_ back at him. He can feel Billy’s hair under his hand, between his fingers. _It’s soft_. Hairspray and all, Billy’s curls are _soft_. “We can definitely do something like that.”

“I’d rather get eaten by the Mind Flayer.”

“I’m trying here, Henderson.”

“And I’m trying too, you just keep bringing him up and I don’t need more stress tonight, Harrington. I’ve got too much on my plate and thinking about him—” Dustin shudders. Gags. It’s a lot to put on.

“Uh huh.” Steve gives him some applause. Slow and sarcastic. “Not Billy specifically then, but, still, we’re embracing the curls.”

Steve hands Dustin the stack of magazines and empties out his backpack, sets his hairsprays and combs and a few choices of cologne on the vanity counter.

Dustin picks up the can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray, turns it around in his hands. Looks up at Steve, wary, unsure, a kid who’s got no idea how to ask a girl out and is about to go for it if Steve can do this right.

“You mean it? I’m not, like, doomed or anything?” He tugs at the straightened locks of hair hanging limp.

“Dude, you helped save the world. You’re the man. _The Main Man_. Act like it.” Steve pats him on both shoulders. “Before we rock the shit out of this, you know what we’re gonna need?”

Dustin shakes his head, eyes the size of a kid’s who actually enjoys school.

“The first step to totally vivacious hair that’ll sweep the ladies off their feet is selecting the right tune.” Steve pulls out a cassette from his backpack. A mixtape he made two years ago for the hell of it and only listens to when he needs an extra boost. “We gotta set the mood for the do.”

Dustin gasps, excited. “I’ll get the boombox.”

 

—

 

Steve styles his own hair first. Explains what he’s doing step by step and _why_ as best he can. _It gives your hair a certain fwoop_ is one of the many things Steve can think of to say, turning years of doing into _Actual words_ turns out to be more difficult than Steve thought, but Dustin takes it all in with a nod, serious, absorbing everything Steve is telling him like what he says is worth this kind of attention.

Steve’s never taught anyone before. Not really. When you’re with the same kids from kindergarten to high school, people catch on pretty quick that Steve’s not exactly the brightest and stop bothering early on asking for his help.

Dustin’s not making fun of him. He’s making mental notes. Nodding along. This is probably what he’s like during class. Asks Steve a million questions about what Steve means by _the grain of your hair_ and _what’s the right level of damp_.

This time around is better than a quick explanation squeezed between talks about _love_ and how it’s all _bullshit_ while walking the tracks, hoping for some monster to be hungry enough to come running. This isn’t just for tonight. Steve’s giving Dustin a little part of himself Dustin can use when he’s in high school, give him a leg up from being completely blindsided by the ringer he’ll probably be put through because of who he can’t help being.

 _Eye of the Tiger_ played when Steve was ducking his head under the faucet of the sink to wet his hair and by the time he’s combed and sprayed his do back to it’s usual Glory they’ve gone through the A side tracks and have flipped it over to listen to _Hungry Like the Wolf_.

Steve whips the towel off from his shoulders. His shirt’s spotless. He finishes off with a quick spray of cologne. Now that he’s here he thinks a half-thought, he doesn’t really consider, of doing a quick shave. Saint Nick’s not here to do it, but Dustin didn’t ask for that.

Another time. Or never.

He’s not about to jump the shark—he knows his place and he’s just going to quietly and happily take what he can get and say _thank you_ afterwards. The Steve Harrington motto. 

“And that,” Steve says with sparkles of Accomplishment in his reflection’s smile, “is how you do it.”

Dustin slow claps. Steve takes a little bow.

 

—

 

“You think I can do all that with my hair?” Dustin says.

“Without a doubt, dude.” Steve adds, “but you’ll probably need a little more spray.”

“And girls will—“ Dustin lowers his voice to a whisper, “—will, like, be _into_ me?”

“Totally.”

“Really?

“ _Really._ Just remember—act like you don’t care.”

“Got it.”

“Be confident.”

“Okay.”

“Definitely smile. You got a good smile.”

“Can do.”

“You got this shit.”

Steve holds up his hand. They high five. They fight with invisible lightsabers. Steve’s never felt this nerdy in his entire life. It’s kind of great.

 

—

 

They’re stuck in a loop. Steve tries to keep the energy up, the positivity, the _it’s going to be great_ attitude going with every talk that seems to sink in until Dustin’s buoyed back into doubting himself.

When Steve went to his first dance, he never got any pep talks. Not from his parents and not from Tommy or any of his friends. Steve barreled through his nerves alone. So. He gets it. Lived through it. Has his own fun nightmares he has every few months to remind him of how the night went and how it could’ve gone so much worse than it did.

The embarrassment still clings to him. Grime under his nails. Only bothers him when he gets smacked in the face by the memories.

Another thing in the pile. Deep in the pile. Right at the bottom.

He’s not thinking about any of it ever.

Like.

Just.

Full stop, _no thanks._

 

—

 

The plan’s to kick back in Dustin’s room while Dustin showers. Read one of his millions of comics—Steve’s told _make sure your hands are freaking spotless_ while handling any of the _Superman_ issues. Rare editions. Collector’s items. _Pristine condition_.

“And since you’re already here, I figured maybe you’d be _interested_ in a little _somethin’ somethin’_.“ Dustin shoves a handful of dice, a clipboard, and a pencil at him all in one go.

Steve looks down at the paper. The grids look vaguely familiar.

Dustin would be that kid with a clipboard.

“It’s your character sheet. An _empty_ character sheet. It’s not right to fill someone else’s out and it’s up to you who your character is, not me—and I really do swear I rolled on intelligence last time.” Dustin says, sounding a little rehearsed and still managing to be heartfelt. Puts a hand over his heart. “ _I swear on my first editions I did, Steve._ ”

“And I believe you.” Steve doesn’t.

“It’d be fun if you played with us.”

“Right.”

“You would have a _blast._ Picture the most fun you’ve ever had and then quadruple it.”

“I heard you.” Dustin’s 13 and he doesn’t know what kind of fun is actually out there. Steve rolls the dice in his palm, rattles the weird shaped bits of wood together. At least one of them goes as high as 20.

Dustin’s giving him the big sad eyes.

He’s sorry. Steve gets that. _3 for intelligence_ does _stick_ between the teeth, though. Taffy to pick at over and over and drive himself nutty with.

Steve shrugs it off again, until the next time.

“I’ll think about it.”

 

—

 

Claudia made snickerdoodles. They’re cooling on a wire rack in the kitchen, still hot from the oven. Steve could smell them all the way in Dustin’s room. That familiar, amazing, wonderful scent had reeled Steve in.

He’s eager to burn his mouth all over again for those little fluffy lumps of cookie deliciousness, but Tews sits on the counter, tail swaying back and forth glaring at Steve and blocking the way.

Pets haven’t been a thing for the Harringtons since Steve had a goldfish for one entire weekend.

Steve sticks his hand out to let her sniff him. He tries to pet her head, but she ducks away. Hisses a little. Shows him her very pointy teeth. Steve’s never been hated by an animal before, it hurts more than when some kid at school hates him.

“Dusty told me how much you liked them and it felt like the perfect little thank you for helping us out.” Claudia says. “Eat as many as you’d like. They’re for you!”

“That’s—you didn’t have to.”

“You know, he’ll hate that I’m saying this but, he talks about you all the time. I didn’t think you were _real_ at first, but he’d talk and talk and _talk_ about you and—here you are!” She pats Steve’s cheek. Her hand is warm. She smells like cinnamon and perfume. “You’re part of the Henderson clan now, young man.”

Claudia cradles Tews in her arms, holds her belly up, says with her lips pressed to Tews’ head, _Steve’s family, honey_.

 

—

 

Dads, moms— _fuck’m_. All Steve needs is a Claudia Henderson.

 

—

 

Carpooling to the dance had come with some new rules now that Billy was driving _two brats and an uppity prep_.

He’s not getting out of his car.

He will not be exerting more energy than it takes to turn the steering wheel.

He picks the music and if anyone says anything they’re getting booted from the camaro.

The big one—Billy’s not meeting any Henderson parents. He’s not playing nice. He’s going to _sit_ and move his foot up and down on the pedal and that’s it.

Dustin hadn’t paid attention to the speech, too busy looking through seven different magazines for hair inspiration and Steve had simply told Billy to _buck up, champ._

Billy hadn’t liked that, though Steve had gotten a good laugh out of it. Clearly, driving Max to the dance hadn’t been his idea and Steve was only making it worse.

That happened back on Monday and Steve has been on the receiving end of _I’m not playing in to your weird babysitter fetish bullshit_ everyday when he drops Steve off at home.

The windows start to rattle. Outside, the distinct sound of the camaro fast approaching followed by the high-pitched squeal of guitars.

The trees surrounding the Henderson house can only swallow so much of the camaro’s engine rumble over the dirt road. Steve can practically hear Billy complaining about the damage to his tires.

The camaro parks. The headlights shine through the window, the curtains, their lights glinting off ornaments and snow globes and Rudolph’s red nose.

Claudia opens the front door and waves for them to come inside.

The engine keeps running.

 

—

 

Max is the only one to come inside, smiling at Claudia in a multi-colored striped sweater with a rose hair clip pulling back a braided lock of hair all underneath a puffy winter coat.

“You look—really pretty, Max.” Steve says because that’s what you’re supposed to say to girls on the night of a dance and if she’s even half as nervous as Dustin, well.

Max blushes. Tugs at her sleeves like she doesn't know what to do with the compliment and then settles on glaring up at Steve.

“Shut up." She says. "Ugh.”

“Where’s—?” Steve starts, but Max is quick to say, annoyed and already done, “he can stay in the car and freeze. I don’t care. Are those cookies? I smell cookies. Mrs. Henderson, you’re the best.”

Then Claudia has her polaroid camera out and aims it at Max for a quick photoshoot by the mantle.

 

—

 

Steve grabs a snickerdoodle cookie.

He checks his hair in the mirror by the door. _Quickly_. Tries to make it look like he’s not. Tucks a few strands behind his ear. Gives it a comb with his fingers. Put together or a little messy like he’s not trying—he’s not sure which to go with.

Steve’s amped up, awake and filled with butterflies that flutter around in his stomach, make his hands shake, excitement’s built up inside of him. He misses the doorknob when he goes to turn it.

He’s a doofus and he’s close to skipping.

Outside, it’s pitch black. The Chrismas lights and the gloomy orange light above the door don’t do much this late in winter.

Steve relies on the camaro’s headlights to avoid tripping and twisting his ankle.

A frosty wind has him crossing his arms. He’d left his jacket inside. It’s a short trek. He keeps his pace slow and unexcited. Tricks the world into thinking he’s steady on his feet, that the rhythm of his heartbeat is totally normal and not kicked up a couple dozen notches, that his fingers aren’t clutching tightly to his sleeves, to the tendons and muscles that make him up.

The window rolls down with Steve’s approach. Up close, Steve notices the chains around the tires. Inside, Steve sees the cherry of Billy’s cigarette first and then—Billy.

Billy sits low in the seat, fingers loose on the bottom of the steering wheel. Wrapped up in his jackets and scarf and fingerless gloves. Sulking with his shoulders up to his ears and a glare specially made for Steve. Unhappy to be here in this driveway, in this all too small town, in this state that’s no where near the warm coastline.

Not at all buzzing in excitement to see Steve like Steve is to see him.

Steve’s unsure what he thought might be different. How Billy would have any idea the inside of Steve has changed shape since yesterday.

Billy’s still Billy.

Taking a breath, squeezing his arms one last time to tell himself _be cool, it’s all right, it’s just Billy, it’s just trees, it’s just shadows, it’s nothing to worry about, keep your shit together, anything comes for him Billy will run it over no problem_. It’s safer outside with the big metal camaro and Billy behind the wheel between him and the woods.

And there’s nothing in the woods. Not anymore. Steve’ll get that through his thick head someday.

He bends down to look into the car, to meet Billy’s pout with a smile and a still warm cookie wrapped up in a napkin. He tosses it onto Billy’s chest. Watches Billy poke at it, unwrap it carefully like whatever’s inside might snap at him.

Billy’s reaction is lacking. He doesn’t even take a bite. Just wraps it back up and tosses it back to Steve

“Said I wasn’t going in and I’m not going in.” Billy tells him.

“Okay.” Steve takes the cookie and puts it right back on Billy’s chest. Gives it a good _push_ for Billy to get the idea. _Eat, asshole_.

Billy drops it out the window, it lands right next to Steve’s shoe. Rolls out of the napkin onto the dirt.

Steve stares at it.

_Really._

“Fuck you too.” Steve says. Changes gears. He dives through the window, leans over Billy, catches the smell of a bright, almost flowery kind of cologne on him and turns the camaro's sound system off. Backs out of the window enough to give Billy a hard, unimpressed stare. “Do you like baseball?”

Billy blows smoke in Steve’s face. Raises his chin up at him. Steve’s already taken enough of the bait.

Steve’s vision has adjusted to the dark. He catches the twitch of Billy’s mouth, the slightest upturn at the corner. Billy didn’t expect that question. He’s rolling with it too.

 _Good_. Steve will only have to hate his guts for the next five seconds.

“No.” Billy says flatly.

“What about playing it?”

“A big fat fuckin’ no from me, hoss.”

“See, no one wants to throw a few.” Steve says, smiling again. He’s got a good smile. In the dark or not. “And it’s like _really_ killing my zest for life, so, I’m gonna pretend you said _yes_ and we’re gonna set up a game and I’m gonna show you how this Indiana all star knocks out a couple homerunners without a single strike to his name.”

“Harrington.” Billy manages to look down at Steve from two feet below. “How many times do I gotta remind you I’m not one of your fucking brats?”

“Are you _not_ twelve?”

“I get that a lot.”

“It’s gotta be all those tantrums. Could be that lil baby mustache.”

“Lots to pick from.” Billy sucks on his cigarette. Exhales through his nose. “Can’t be my giant dick.”

“ _Huh_. Well, who’d-a-thunk. I have a lot to ruminate on this winter's eve.”

There’s a _CRACK_ to the right of him. Distinct. Sharp.

Steve whips around.

On the other side of the camaro he sees the dark of the woods first then the shuffling trees. Tries to see between their trunks, branches.

The light above the Henderson’s front door flickers.

The wind goes right up the back of his shirt.

Steve knocks on the hood of the camaro, standing very still, keeps his hand on the roof, eyes on the light. The camaro’s icy. Everything is so quiet.

He watches the light for a few seconds holding his breath.

The light doesn’t flicker again.

“Did you hear that?” Steve says, low. Soft. His voice is carried away.

“Afraid of the dark, King Steve?”

“Something like that.

Steve shakes himself. Imagining things is what he does best. Hearing things too.

He leans down, sees Billy unchanged and unspooked, sulking and starting to get pissed off, about to bite his cigarette in two, any enjoyment out of teasing Steve withering away from him by the second.

He’s going to go inside. They both know it. It hangs between them in the empty space of the rolled down window.

It’s the principle of not giving in, though. Steve could wait him out, except it’s cold and creepy and his own head is messing with him and it’s _so much nicer_ inside.

Billy might be fine sitting out here by himself in the dark—but Steve’s not. Billy deserves hot chocolate and a warm blanket.

“You really gonna let me freeze to death waiting on your ass?”

Billy sniffs. “Car’s unlocked.”

Steve picks the cigarette out of Billy’s mouth and takes a drag. Smothers it out on the ground next to the snickerdoodle with the heel of his shoe along with the urge to climb into the camaro and let Billy drive off with him.

For once there’s no doubt lurking in the back of Steve’s mind.

_Billy would do it._

Max could get a ride from Claudia. Dustin would hate him. The thought of it. Playing it out in his head.

Maybe they’d leave Hawkins all together.

Maybe Steve would put his hand on the back of Billy’s seat to play with his hair.

Maybe Steve would touch the inseam of Billy’s jeans and make his way up to where the insides of his thighs meet.

A whole powder blue camaro full of _maybes_.

Steve knows Billy would do it and just knowing makes him dizzy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter got too overwhelming to work on so I had to break it up again (I cannot rewrite this a fourth time. I can't do it. The pain of editing has wrecked this blob, I tell ya what). 
> 
> \- An extra schmoopy chapter for various reasons  
> \- Claudia Henderson is an archivist  
> \- Claudia Henderson is really into Christmas because she wore an evergreen vest in the show and also why not  
> \- Steve can and will eat anything and everything, don't you doubt it  
>   
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


	5. “Hold on to your ridiculous pants, Hargrove.” [5/6]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you socknonny for looking over this chapter! You're a lifesaver!

In the golden light inside of the Henderson home, reluctantly surrendered and unwrapped from all his layers by an overly concerned Claudia, Billy stands out against the innate homeyness that goes beyond the Christmas knickknacks and family photos lining every wall by the dozens.

Claudia Henderson side-steps Billy’s usual charm—a smooth _evening, miss_ said with his sweet smile reserved only for women who are twice his age and then some and, once upon a time, for Steve too.

It makes Steve share a _look_ with one of the Rudolph’s who will never know what it feels like to be a teenager in Indiana in a backwoods town that’s too big for it’s own good.

But Claudia smiles passed it, ducks before the _bad boy from the west coast_ charm can grab hold of her like everyone else.

Billy’s practiced ease at making any room his own slips along with his dimple-framed thousand watt smile. The crack in the plaster’s tiny. Billy’s been thrown off. The missed beat in Billy’s well worn routine when it comes to women is audible and Steve has to cough to cover the laugh that bursts out of him, satisfied and pleased at the fumbled pass.

 _Good_.

Just like she had done for Steve and then Max—sitting curled up on one end of the couch, knees bent towards her chest and her arms wrapped around herself and her own mug of hot chocolate, her striped woolen toes wiggling while she watches TV ignoring all of them—Claudia does the same for Billy.

She tuts over his bandage, at how cold he is—red nose, red cheeks. Rubs at a smudge on his cheek that makes his eye twitch. Worries over him. _Indiana winters are nothing to sneeze about_ and _it’s so easy to get frostbite, are you wearing two pairs of socks? I have spares for guests_. Brings him a snowman mug of hot chocolate towering with marshmallows that nearly spill over. Hovers over him with wringing hands as though she can sense this isn’t what Billy’s used to, that his own mom _isn’t here_.

Claudia read Steve just as easily. It could be one of those abilities mothers just _have_ , being able to spot a kid from a crowd who’s not exactly on first name basis with the concept of _family_. A kid like Billy who Steve hasn’t got much of a clue about except for a vague outline because there are things you just don’t ask a guy.

Steve’s unsure what Claudia knows about Billy, what exactly Dustin had told her about that night, if he’s told her anything at all, if she even knows the name _Billy Hargrove_ and everything it already carries with it in this town.

It’s hard to imagine. There’s never been a name that’s stuck so squarely and uncomfortably and annoyingly in Steve’s head. Bright neon lights lighting up corners of himself he didn’t know were there.

Though, really, thinking of his own mom, it’s likely just a _Claudia Henderson_ thing.

She ushers them both onto the couch. Billy sits stiffly on the other end while Steve sets himself gingerly in the middle, carefully trying not to touch Billy or Max, and Max continues to slurp at her own drink and ignores the both of them and pressing herself to the arm of the couch as much as she can, completely unbothered by Claudia unlike Billy.

Calling her _pretty_ may have been too much. Steve can admit that. Dealing with kids—it’s weird.

On the TV is another episode of _Hart to Hart_. He vaguely remembers it as the one where Robert Wagner gets amnesia. He doesn’t like the show that much, but he’s watched every episode.

In the kitchen, there’s the sound of the sink being turned on and the high pitched clang of porcelain dishes tapping together, the quiet hum of the _Happy Days_ theme song from Claudia sending Steve on a trip he slams the breaks on quick.

Not directly, but from the corner of his eye, quickly and in a rush that heats up his cheeks in a stormy blush, Steve looks Billy up and down and sees what the camaro and the heavy night outside had kept from him.

Pressed baby blue shirt buttoned all the way, too-tight denim jeans with his curls done up tight and delicately falling along his forehead, one curl swaying and bouncing off his thick lashes—all of this carefully put together in a way that’s too casual to not be on purpose. _Foxy_.

Steve wants to ask him if he’s planning to _go_ to the dance dressed like this.

He won’t. He hasn’t completely snapped yet.

But the question floats around in his head, suggesting some interesting ideas and reminds him to keep his eyes on the plush of the beige carpet or on one of the millions of Santas that somehow know every secret he’s ever had and is laughing at him

_Steve Harrington likes a boy._

Funniest joke to ever reach the North Pole. Steve’s slapping his own knee, he can’t stop _laughing_.

Steve sneaks another glance.

Billy’s locked up. Frozen. Hunched over on the edge of the couch, thighs tense, like he’s sitting on a pin cushion full of prickly needles, ready to get up and leave at any second. Both hands wrapped around his mug, he stares down at the melting marshmallows with an angry furrow between his eyebrows, his lips narrow, pulled tight in a grimace at whatever it is he sees in that mug.

“How’s your—“ there’s so many choices to choose from, _how’s your head? your arm? are you still dizzy? does your hand still hurt sometimes?_

Steve flounders, but he has to ask. Interrupt this moment Billy is having with the snowman mug. “How’s the arm?”

The new bandage is wrapped neater than yesterday. Not a spot of blood has seeped through the pristine white of the gauze that goes all the way from his wrist and up the inside his sleeve.

The cuts have probably healed by now. They hadn’t looked too deep, ugly and violent as the scratches had been.

Billy startles, eyes snapping up to look at Steve, which makes Steve startle too. He hadn’t realized how on edge he’d been. White knuckling his own hot chocolate, sitting just as stiff as Billy. He forces himself to relax. Drums his fingers on the mug to get his joint back to working. Pushes himself into the rosy cushions. Unglues his knees and lets them splay out, relaxed. Picks out the first breathing exercise he can think of that his mom had told him about while recounting one of her meditation sessions.

Breathes through his nose. In—count to ten—out. Sort of feels better.

Billy’s back to staring at his cup. Chewing over something that’s got too much fat on it.

Steve wants him to spit it out. Knows that with Max right here he’s not going to get anything close to the truth. Not in front of _shitbird Maxine_ and not in a house that’s too confining for someone like Billy.

A commercial break later, Billy graduates to glaring at his drink for a long stretched out moment and Steve is convinced he’s about to storm out and Steve will have to lasso him and drag him back inside when Billy slams it back and starts chugging the whole thing down, hot chocolate and marshmallows all at once.

Steve sits there, stupidly, watching him.

Billy finishes and pounds his fist on his chest then, about to slam his mug on the coffee table, slows to set it down gently.

“Groovy.” Billy says, dryly at the TV. Wiping his mouth on his bare arm.

There’s no way he hadn’t just burned the hell out of his tongue and gums. Steve waits for him to say anything else and shakes his head at himself.

Yesterday feels like it happened weeks ago.

Tews winds her way between Billy’s legs, jumps up onto the arm of the couch then pushes passed Billy’s arms onto his lap. She circles twice before sitting, settling in to stare at Steve. It’s unsettling how much the cat hates him. How she even remembers him.

He must have stepped on her tail without noticing. There’s really no other reason for this much hostility. This is _Tiffany Mazzanti right after their break up_ level of hate.

Billy pets Tews on the head with one finger, tentative, like Billy’s never had a pet either, not one he could _pet_ , then he slowly starts to settle into the couch. His shoulders slope. His back sinks into the cushions and embroidered pillow. His knee touches Steve’s and it’s Steve who pulls away. Shocked by this slight touch that doesn’t mean anything, but now this—two denim knees knocking together—is enough to make him burn, his skin tingling all over.

He shifts away, puts whatever space he can between them without being obvious and veers right back into that tension he’d thought had gone away, but had just been standing over his shoulder, waiting until Steve’s brain kickstarted and shifted back into overthinking.

Steve picks at his marshmallows, eating them one by one. Billy smells like something out of a nice bottle. Steve wishes he hadn’t reacted like that, jerking his knee away like Billy has cooties, like all it takes to make either one of them is their knees touching for all of one second.

Billy hadn’t moved away. That’s the thing.

Steve did. That’s the other _thing_.

Tews purrs as Billy pets her. Billy starts to smile and when he catches Steve’s eye, he sticks his tongue out at him.

 

—

 

Steve turns around on the couch to watch as Claudia, with her polaroid camera in hand, positions Billy and Max by the mantle. She fixes the hair clip pinning Max’s braid back then fusses with Billy’s curls, telling him fondly, _you’re just like my Dusty with all that wild curly hair_. Billy neither flinches or tells her to _shove off_. Only his eyebrows move, crawling their way closer to his hairline the longer Claudia’s attention is on him and he looks over short Claudia’s head to Steve, searching for help or answers for _why_ this is happening to him or for a distraction so he can gun it and flee.

Steve props his head up on the back of the couch and waves at him. Maybe the hot chocolate had warmed something up inside of Billy or maybe he’s gotten over whatever shock it was that had him so tense. Probably the idea of getting his photo taken won him over enough to chill for a few minutes.

Claudia gives Billy and Max party horns. Waves at them to _squish a little closer_. Tells them to _smile_. Neither one of them wants to do it, their matching grimaces at _say cheese!_ are enough to get that across. Standing in each other’s orbit and having to play nice. It’s an actual wonder they managed it for this long.

Billy mouths _dude_ at Steve around the paper toy just as the flash goes off and Max blows her party horn directly into Billy’s ear, the end unwinding to jab at him.

Billy cringes at Steve’s bad jokes and his impressions that aren’t _that_ bad and every time he realizes Hawkins is worse than he already thought it was and that’s, like, daily and now Billy cringes and jumps back, rubbing his ear with the flat of his hand, _almost sort of nearly so so so so close_ to laughing and for a few seconds the tension that turns Billy rigid snaps and the air gets lighter and the golden and green and red lights strung up on the walls seem to brighten and Steve desperately tries to remember where his own polaroid camera is.

 

—

 

Dustin pokes at his hair, pulling a limp curly lock that’s more noodle than hair between his eyes to examine it and lets go to see it not bounce back, but hang there on his forehead, slowly unwinding. The flat iron had done its job and undoing it was going to be a problem.

The tiny mermaid bathroom is stuffy with steam and the scent of Farrah Fawcett hairspray. The mirror’s been wiped with a towel to be able to see. An entire can of hairspray is empty and lets out a sad whistle of nothing when Steve checks. Dustin has a comb stuck in one side of his hair.

Dustin’s gotten a head start, tried out a few things on his own and Steve can sort of see where he’s going, what he’s trying to _build_ —some type of mullet—but the hairspray just isn’t doing it and what his hair has been turned into is—Steve tries to be nice in his own head just in case it comes spilling out without him meaning to say it, Dustin’s already on the edge.

It’s a little not the best. Could be better. Could have lost all of his hair and be bald.

Billy is behind Steve, leaning on the doorway, arms crossed and all that tension that made him so un-Billy-like is gone and thoroughly in favor of a very-Billy-like sharp grin, the new sparkle in his eyes that makes them all the more bluer than they’d been just one living room ago as he takes in Dustin’s disastrous attempts at molding his hair.

He’d followed Steve and Steve can’t tell him to scoot, that Dustin won’t like Billy collecting more ammo to fire at him. It doesn’t need to be said Billy’s not about to hang around anywhere near a Claudia Henderson and it’s not like _Steve_ wants him to leave.

So Steve tries to block Billy from Dustin. Act as the barrier. The Good Ole Steve Harrington Buffer. Doesn’t have to try all that hard since Dustin’s distracted by his reflection and the lopsided lean to his pile of curls. Over his shoulder, Steve shoots Billy a look that clearly, in his opinion, says to be _nice_ and to maybe not _say anything at all_ since Dustin hasn’t noticed Billy just yet. Billy can be nice. Steve knows it. Like, not super nice. Somewhere in the middle of _nice_ and _threatening to kill a few kids right to their kid faces_ maybe. There’s enough grey area for Billy to stretch out and not be an outright dick.

Steve tries to convey all that with his eyebrows and his eyes and a very meaningful pointed finger thrown in at the end that means business. He thinks Billy gets it when he zips his lips and flicks the key at Steve. Plays along and stays quiet and doesn’t draw attention to himself. Just eyes the flat iron and the mess all over the counter.

“Maybe this is a sign.” Dustin says to the lock of hair slowly uncurling between his eyes.

“It’s really not.”

“Maybe it’s fate?”

“That would be the lamest fate though.”

“Maybe I _need_ to stay home because _maybe_ there’s another gate—“

Steve jumps to cut him off. “You’re definitely going to the dance and you’re gonna ask a girl to do the hustle and it’s gonna be super magical.”

“But—“

“—Nope. I’m not listening. I can’t hear you. Close your eyes, I’m gonna do a heavy mist. Probably wanna not talk, this stuff’s got a ripe tang to it.” Steve picks up a comb and a new can of hairspray and thankfully Dustin for once doesn’t argue with him and just closes his eyes.

Steve shares a look with Billy in the mirror and sees how interested Billy is in what he’s going to attempt to do and there was already pressure to get this done right and now he’s got an audience and the _big thing is_ he’s never done anyone else’s hair before. He’s held the hairdryer for Nancy once and only for a minute while Nancy rushed to put makeup on after spending the night at his place. He put every hair clip Carol owned in Tommy’s hair when they were fifteen.

That’s it.

Leaning more into the tiny bathroom that can barely fit both him and Dustin, Billy gives him a thumbs up.

Steve could be reading that thumb wrong, but he isn’t and the sarcasm is really not appreciated right now.

Doing someone else’s hair is _different_. The angle is weird. Steve has to think every move through. It’s not the type of hair he’s used to working with and curly hair is somehow more stubborn than Steve’s own hair. He’s got at least one more can of hairspray and plenty of combs and years of manhandling his own hair into something impressive and he’s going to give it all he’s got except a few minutes in Steve, as slow as he can be when it comes to most things, realizes there’s just not enough Farrah Fawcett hairspray in this bathroom or possibly the entire world to get Dustin’s hair to stay where Steve wants it to stay.

Rocking up to a junior high dance wearing a baseball cap wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened at a middle school.

He tries not to let the frustration get to him. The idea that he can’t even do something as simple as _this_. The one thing he’s good at. _Known for._

The spray had only made the curls stronger and less likely to listen to Steve.

Behind him, Billy clicks his tongue. His version of being nice. He could have laughed. Steve wants to point this out to Dustin. _See? What’d I tell ya? He’s a good guy, that Hargrove._

Dustin twitches. He cracks an eye open and quickly shuts it, face scrunched up. He shakes his head.

“Did you say his name three times and did he crawl out of the mirror?” Dustin whispers to Steve.

“I don’t know what that means, but shove it up your ass, kid.” Billy says. Leans one arm against the doorway, his hip cocked and one leg bent as he levels a smile at Dustin. “As precious as this little moment is, that,” Billy points to the multiple cans of hairspray, “isn’t gonna work on,” he gestures to Dustin’s hair with a curled lip, “ _that_.”

Dustin spins around, face bright red, to point at Billy, hitting Steve in the chest with his arm and only a few inches short of jabbing Billy's nose.

“You.” Dustin says. “I burned my hat that you desecrated.”

“Arson’s a solid first step to being cool, but that’s gonna be one steep incline, bucko.” Billy stares at Dustin’s finger with a quirked eyebrow then smacks his finger away. “You’re gonna need gel. Like, a shit ton of it if you’re going for anything close to a mullet.”

 _Gel_. Steve knew that. _He did._  He does. He has jars of it back at his house. Gel. Mousse. He _should_ have remembered to bring one of those, but between pages of porn mags and his own dick he got too caught up in himself.

_I’m an idiot._

Steve ignores both their glaring and rams right through the hostility. He snaps his fingers. “That’s a good idea. I should’ve thought of that.”

“Got all the smarts you need, don’t worry about it, pretty boy.” Billy flips his hair over his shoulder, gets his eyes _sparkling_. 

“Oh my god.” Dustin mutters.

Steve, as quietly as he can when there’s only two feet to breathe any of the stuffy Farrah Fawcett air, bites out, _Henderson, shut it right now._

Steve puts his hands on Dustin’s shoulders, rocks him on his feet. “See? He’s not Satan. Satan doesn’t have good hair tips. ‘Cause of the horns. You know?”

“I’m _Satan?_ ” Billy says, absolutely gleeful.

Dustin says, “you’re _trespassing._ ”

“Your mama gave me _hot chocolate_ and a fuckin’ blanket—I’m welcomed here, ya little fucker.”

“Says the _devil_.”

“I bet you didn’t even burn that hat.”

Dustin squeezes past Steve to set himself within one step of Billy, craning his neck back with his shoulders set high and tense. All those rides in the back of the camaro have given Dustin a boost in confidence when it comes to responding to Billy. As bad as his nerves are, he’s standing on his two feet and looking Billy in the eye and not blinking once.

Billy’s not at all impressed. The way he shifts to lean harder on the door frame with his arm above his head, his shirt lifting to show a slip of skin Steve’s seen dozens of times but especially tonight sends a shock of _oh that’s nice_ through him. All of this says Dustin’s entertaining. If Dustin tried to throw a punch, Billy would laugh.

“I’ve burned _plenty_ of things.” Dustin tells him.

“Sure you have, shortstack Pacino.”

“Like. A lot of things.”

“I believe you.”

“Like— _I can’t even tell you what_ kind of things. So. Hargrove. Just. Shut it.”

Billy sucks on his teeth in a fake wince. “Gonna have to up your game if you’re goin’ stag, little man. Bitches ain’t gonna be impressed by Porky Pig's nerdy brother setting his own baseball cap on fire. Specially with that mop on top.”

Dustin puffs out his cheeks in a huff. Steve didn’t know faces could get that red. Steam comes out of Dustin’s ears. The temperature in the bathroom rises and neither Dustin or Billy seem to be blinking and the dance has already started.

“You know.” Steve grabs a can and sprays Farrah Fawcett into the air above their heads and a little bit in their faces too. Dustin flaps his hands in front of his face. Billy doesn’t budge or even glance Steve’s way, stuck in his need to prove himself.

Steve slams the hairspray on the counter. Starts again.

“ _You know_ you both have curly hair. You’re both nerds. You’re both so annoying. You both apparently hate baseball for some ridiculous reason, like, it's a solid game to watch _and_ play and I genuinely cannot understand what's wrong with either of you, like, it's _baseball_. It's America's sport. So. Like. It’s real cute to watch you guys do this thing for the millionth time, but I think you two have a lot in common and people who have _a lot in common_ can be, maybe, something, but not _exactly_ but also not- _not_ exactly like—“

Billy snorts. Sarcastic as his thumb.

Dustin says, “I’d rather die.”

Max pops her head in the doorway. She’s holding Tews.

Tews loves everyone except for Steve. He tries not to let that hurt his feelings. Being singled out by a cat is—surprisingly rough.

“What’s taking so long—oh.” Max stops short. Sucks in a breath. Mouth stretched out in a wince that shows all her teeth. Dustin stares at her, wide eyed, too mortified to move. She pokes the side of Dustin’s head and more of his hair wobbles out and comes undone. “Did you do this on purpose?”

“Get out. Everyone out. There are too many people in this bathroom. I can’t breathe.” Dustin’s hand fly up to cover his hair. Steve begins to worry he might actually melt his face off. “I am going to have a conniption in private, thank you very much, now all of you please _get out_ and leave me to _die_.”

“Dustin, come on. You’re not gonna die. It’s just _hair_.“ Steve never thought he’d say _that._

He’s not completely lying.

Dustin shakes his head, grabs his hat and shoves it back on. He blindly points to the door, the space in between Billy and Max.

“I’m not going. I’m out. I was never meant to dance, it was stupid to think—I’m gonna shave my head. Change my name. I’m done. _I’m out._ I’m moving to Utah to live with my uncle and raise chickens and, like, compete in tractor fights or something. No one dances there. It’s outlawed.”

“Happy sails.” Billy says.

Max elbows him in his stomach.

Billy elbows her back, knocking her off balance then scoops up Tews. He sticks his tongue out at Max, scratching Tews behind her ear, tucked close to his chest and turning his back to her when Max tries to grab her back or pet her.

Max calls him a _fucking douche_.

Billy tells her _yeah, I am and I still have the cat._

“Dude. It’s okay.” Steve says to Dustin. The guilt rises quick, flooding all the way up to his neck. “It’s fine. It’s so fine. Relax.”

“You only say that when things _aren’t_ fine, Steve. You might as well say the situation is all fucked.” Dustin says. “This is a SNAFU. We are in a SNAFU.”

Steve grabs Dustin by the shoulders.

“Everything is totally under control and,” Steve swallows the _fine_ , “and this ship hasn’t sunk yet.”

“Harrington.” Billy says. “This ship capsized way before tonight.”

“Be helpful.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“How do you suck so much?”

“With gusto.” Billy smiles and kisses the top of Tews’ head, dodging Max.

Steve can’t handle _that_ right now. There’s too much Farrah Fawcett and panic in here to handle _that_. Dustin is too close and Max is too close to handle _any of that._

“I think—maybe I shouldn’t go, you know? This was a bad idea. Realistically, like, _logically_ and based off history, this is a really bad idea. I’m a—I’m a _nerd_ , I don’t belong at a _dance_ with _people_.” Dustin turns his middle school anxieties on Steve and it’s a lot to take in. “Wanna watch Star Wars? We can watch the one with the ewoks first? I know that’s why it’s your favorite one and, like, I accept that. I can learn to accept that.”

Max says to Billy, _stop hogging the cat_.

Billy says to Max, _stop being a bitch._

Steve tries to think of something comforting to say.

_Anything._

“Billy’s gonna fix this.” Steve says catching everyone’s attention.

There’s quiet and then—

“I’m gonna chuck a cat at your face, Harrington.” Billy snaps as Dustin squeaks out, “ _Never_. God. No. Ew. _No._ ”

“It’s a good idea.” Steve says. “This might be the best idea I’ve ever had. Literally.”

“It’s really, like, _really_ not, my man.” Dustin says.

“Harrington, you need some self esteem.” Billy says.

“I’m sticking with it.” Steve tells them. “You’re gonna do his hair. Yep, You are, right? It’s decided. It's done. Everyone shut up.”

“ _No_.” Billy and Dustin both say.

“Both of you just do what he says, _god_.” Max says and shoves herself into the bathroom, squeezing passed Steve and cornering Dustin against the shower curtain.

She rips his hat off. Her lips purse for a split second to keep from laughing _directly_ in his face.

“Steve’s right. Billy’s gonna do your hair and you’re gonna get dressed and then we’re gonna leave and go to the stupid dance and get this over with, okay? So shove it with the whining, it’s annoying.”

“No.” Dustin says.

“ _Yes._ ” Max says.

“He—“ Dustin points his finger in Billy’s, “he is not coming near me. He’s not touching me. He’s not touching my hair. Did everyone go nuts or something? What is happening?”

Dustin snatches his cap back from Max to put it back on his head.

“What he said. I’m not playing salon.” Billy jumps in. He gives Dustin’s hair a disgusted look. “He’s probably got lice or something in there. I ain’t touching that shit.”

“I do _not_ have _lice_.”

“Says the little liar.”

“You—you strangled Tommy H. _yesterday._ You are in no way coming near me or my precious Mensa head.”

It’s the first time Billy _really_ reacts. Dustin’s hit a giant nerve, slapped Billy in the face, a blip in the anger and sarcasm and snarl drawing up his lip to show his bite and Steve has to step in.

“Do you just tune out when I talk, dude? I told you,” Steve says, breaking up the live wire between Billy and Dustin, “it’s _complicated._ ”

Max snorts.

“Choking another mouthbreather out is like the _least_ offensive thing Billy’s done _this week_ , jeez. Get over it. Move on to the next shitty thing he does, in like, two minutes probably.” Max says. Then turns on Billy, glares at him across the small space of the mermaid bathroom. “You’re gonna help out so I don’t have to spend the rest of my _entire_ night with you guys because, like, _all the offense_ , I’m really tired of smelling _dude_.”

Billy says, too calm, flat, lulling, “I’m not doing shit.”

“Yeah, you are.” She spells the words out slow, with each one Billy closes up more and the anger seeps out, bubbles up to the surface. Real this time. The game’s over. He’s not playing anymore.

“No.” He tells her. Steve. Dustin. “I’m really not.”

“ _You are_ or do you want to be here for the rest of, like, all eternity? I know you have _big_ plans.”

 _Plans_ is a grenade thrown into Steve’s head and he’s got no sense of self-worth to save himself from it.

The tiny space of the mermaid filled bathroom was not made to contain the kind of strained tension between the Mayfields and the Hargroves. Dustin’s stress. Steve’s head hurrying to catch up and figure out what he’s missed, what _plans_ Billy could have and if that’s why he’s wearing cologne and dressed like he’s going on a date.

The house is about to explode. No one is going to make it out. _Boom_. They’re all dead.

 _Dumb_.

This—it’s all jam packed ridiculousness.

Steve shakes his head loose of all these dumb, stupid, ridiculous thoughts. Focuses on the _now_ and not the _maybe’s_ , ready to step in, cool things down. This isn’t the time for one of their fights, especially one that starts off this sour.

Billy smiles. Sets Tews on the counter. Bends down so he’s eye level with Max.

Says, soft, “Maxine, you wanna rethink that tone or do you wanna walk back to the house?”

“I’m sure _dad_ will be really happy with you making your _little sister_ walk home through the woods. At night.”

“Oh, _Maxine._ ” Billy says, sighs, clicks his tongue, teeth sharp and ready to chomp down. Max stands steady, ready for whatever Billy might send her way, but Billy just straightens up. Breathes out deeply through his nose, eyes closed. Moves so he’s standing next to Steve, mutters _brat bitch_ under his breath.

He sits on the edge of the counter, holds up his hand.

“Five minutes and I’m bouncing.” Billy taps at his watch, shows the digital numbers to Steve. “When I agreed to drive your two asses, I just assumed I wouldn’t have to also wait on your two asses and _touch_ that one.”

“Speaking as _that one_ —I have a _name._ ”

“And I still don’t care.” Billy leans around Steve to smile at Dustin.

Steve pinches his nose. Scratches at it. His whole face itches. He tugs and tugs at his hair. A middle school dance shouldn't be stressful. He's passed this. He's gotten through puberty and the apocalypse. He should be able to handle this better.

“Hargrove.” Steve says.

“King Steve.” Billy says.

Billy’s head lolls to the side to look up at Steve, bored mask back on, anger in check. His arms are crossed and his biceps are bulging and _big_.

Steve could get lost.

“Maybe instead of, like, bitching? You could, I don’t know.” Steve pauses to put his hand on his hip and look up at the white popcorn ceiling and the vent that might be the cleanest vent Steve’s ever seen. Thinks of _plans_ and pink haired cashiers who talk about sharks and a night involving his own empty house and Billy. Always Billy. Dumb, asshole Billy with blue eyes and soft hair who put a hook through Steve’s chest and has reeled him out into the open and doesn’t have the decency to put him in the boat or throw him back in the water. “I’m spitballing, like really reaching here with this lightbulb that just _totally_ popped into my head—maybe you could—gosh— _help?_ ”

Billy chews at the inside of his lip, gets them pursed and ready to snap. He points to the ceiling. “When Santa climbs down the chimney and takes a shit in one of those lil stockings, I’d be happy to help.”

“The Christmas spirit really has gotten to you.”

“Jolliest fucker in this one-horse town.”

“One- _reindeer_ town, please. Keep with the theme, Hargrove. Also, like, I wasn’t joking. Help.”

“Harrington.” Billy says, blandly. “Four minutes and I’m leaving.”

“Oh thank the baby jesus _he’s leaving._ ” Dustin says, rolling his eyes as he claps his hands together in a prayer.

“No, you’re not.”

“Clock’s ticking.”

“Come on.”

Billy kicks his feet out, crosses them at the ankle.

Steve sighs. “Your hair’s almost as good as mine. You know what you’re doing. _C’mon._ ”

“Am I blushing?”

“I kind of, like, hate you.”

“Baby, you don’t mean that.” Billy’s dimples make an appearance, his smile only half as charming as it usually is. “I’m lovable as hell.”

Max gags, nearly wretches. Dustin coughs to cover up his muttered _bullshit_.

“ _Hargrove,_ ” Steve grits his teeth. “I got a question for you. You ever get tired of being so far up your own ass? Can you even _breathe_ in there?”

“If you think just because I helped you yesterday, I won’t bash your pretty face with a mermaid—“

“But I _do_ think that. I think you’re gonna bitch and threaten to shove a fish lady up something of mine and then you’re probably gonna get huffy and then give in because you realize, _hey, maybe this will go faster if someone who knows what they’re doing does the thing_ so, you know, let’s skip the attitude ‘cause I’m not buying it and just help a guy out and then we can leave and you can get to your _plans_. Sound good? It does. I, like, so know it does.”

Billy stares at him and Steve has no idea what Dustin or Max might say, what they think. He’s got his sights set on one headache and watches Billy loop back what Steve said and play it back in his head.

“Bullshit?” Billy says. His eyes light up. Glowing. Bright, bright blue. Endless blue. A blue wanting to fight. Steve’s tickled him. “That’s what you’re gonna say to me?”

“Is that all you got from what I just said or?” Steve says and takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he will not always be in this tiny mermaid bathroom for the rest of his days. “It’ll be fun? Does that work better? Please? Share your smarts with the class? Put us out of our misery? I'll limit my Joelster to only a dozen times a day?”

"A dozen?"

"A cool Billy Joel twelve. You'll miss him, but, like, I think I can live. It'll make him more special."

Billy stands up, sways a little to get in Steve’s face then leans on the counter with one hand, his chest pressed against Steve’s shoulder—his lips catch the light, shine in a peculiar and familiar way, his hairspray sharp, his cologne nearly sweet, his lips the tail-end of fruity, Steve’s eyes go a little unfocused—he stares Dustin down then turns that look to Steve and they’re so damn close Steve can feel his breath when he exhales, feel his ribcage expand, could probably count the freckles on his nose. Can see the tiny pink veins in the whites of his eyes when Billy nearly kills himself rolling them.

He pulls his gloves off and shoves them into Steve’s chest.

“I never have to listen to Billy Joel again and you owe me a pack of reds.”

"Never?"

"You heard me."

That's gonna hurt, but. Well. Steve can live with it. He holds out his hand. “Fine. Can do.”

“And make it two packs.”

“All right.”

“And a case of beer. None of that piss water Colonial crap either.”

“Anything else you’d like to order? The special tonight is _you’re pushing it_ chowder.”

Billy’s lips curl slow into a smile that barely reaches the corners of his mouth. He grabs Steve's hand and tugs him in, gets him unsteady on his feet. Says, “Just a thank you, dollface.”

Steve’s fingers spasm around Billy’s gloves, clutching them tightly. He coughs out _cute_ and blushes and gives Billy’s shoulder a light shove afterwards.

Honestly. _Boys._

Frantically, Dustin looks around the square foot of space he has to himself and grabs the pointiest of the mermaid statues holding a ship’s mast and swings it in front of him.

“When I say I’d rather die, I meant it. I will take you all down with me.” Dustin points it at all three of them.

Tews meows. Max picks her up and says _Dustin is so freaking dramatic, how can you stand living with him?_

“Jesus, Harrington, you couldn’t pick less annoying kids to be weird friends with?”

“Says the devil.” Steve says straight faced.

Billy does the devil horns and sticks his tongue out wickedly.

 

—

 

Billy doesn’t complain about the choices on Steve’s mix tape. He’s quiet and scowling. His eye twitches and Steve has to tell him to cool it with the glare or else Dustin might turn around and bite him. Dustin digs out a jar of gel from under the sink and tells them glancing at Max, once he’s put the mermaid with the mast statue down, that the _why_ and the _when_ he’d bought it didn’t matter and snaps his mouth shut and it’s the bear spray all over again. Bringing it out when Steve’s already lost the base.

While Steve had walked Dustin through the steps of transforming his hair into something Magnificent and Big, Billy charges in with all his aggression, biting out curses and grunts, thick blue gel dripping down his forearms and onto Dustin’s shirt, his bandage ruined. The bathroom floor covered in big blue gloops smelling like coconut.

Billy combs back Dustin’s unruly hair, taming it into what’s starting to look like a cross between a mullet and a pompadour, the chunk of straightened hair even blending in with his curls. Shaping it high while still keeping the top fluffy, sculpting expertly with his hands and then with one of the wide tooth combs, the same crinkle in his eybrows he wears when he’s picking the lock of a BMW open.

Steve leans against one side of the doorway and Max on the other, the two of them watching from the sidelines. He’s got the boombox within reach and makes sure to not get so lost in Billy’s technique so he can keep an ear out for the best song for the moment.

Hearing Dave Bickler sing _it's the eye of the tiger/it's the thrill of the fight_ really captures the aggressive mood between the two of them.

“I hate you so,  _so_ much.” Dustin says.

Like a reflex, every time Billy touches his hair, he turns around to check if Billy, Satan, and possibly Bloody Mary too, is about to do something nefarious.

“Wow, I hate you too. This is kismet.” Billy says and flicks Dustin’s ear. “Who the hell flat iron’s their _hair?_ What is wrong with you? Goddamn, kid. Use one of your Mensa braincells and think.”

Dustin flips Billy off with both middle fingers, flings his hands into the air and waves them at Billy’s reflection.

Billy yanks Dustin’s hair back hard. Dustin yelps. Reminds Billy he has Cleidocranial Dysplasia. Billy reminds Dustin to _shut the hell up and stand still_.

This could lead to a double homicide. Possibly a triple one. Steve would probably have to step in if it got that far. He’s technically the other adult here. Or closer to one. Being eighteen doesn’t feel any different than being seventeen. He’s just Steve, but now he can buy cigarettes and porn and get drafted and maybe someone will call him _Mr._ one day and Steve will have a total breakdown over it.

Max is making a series of faces that get worse and worse. Grimacing. Confused. Worried Billy may pull Dustin’s head right off his shoulders.

She’d be the only one to walk out of the bathroom alive. Tews would start eating Steve’s face right away. That’s what cats do when you die. They eat your face. That’s what happened to Mrs. Zaborowski. Died of a heart attack while her husband was away for the weekend and he came home to a dead wife who didn’t have a face.

Tommy had told him that. Swore it was true while they were curled up under a blanket fort made of the expensive quilts and afghans Steve’s mom told him were only ever for _guests_  to use with only one flashlight between them aimed at their wool roof.

Steve eyes Tews. She’s kneading Max’s arm.

Tommy’s lost the thread. Steve has too. Mrs. Zaborowski has been dead for more than a decade. Mr. Zaborowski has remarried twice. Steve had been dragged to both of his weddings by his parents.

Steve worries about the scratches under Billy’s bandages. If the gel has soaked through completely and if it stings and if that’s bad and could lead to an infection.

The cuts weren’t that deep.

The claw marks.

Tommy had clawed Billy and Billy had choked Tommy.

Steve reaches out to pet Tews between her ears and she hisses at him.

“I’m _nice_.” Steve tells the cat. _Steve Harrington is nice_. Pulled his head out of his own ass and is nice now and has been for the last year and next year too and maybe even the year after that if everything doesn’t completely fall apart after graduation.

Tews is unmoved.

Max is more moved.

Disturbed.

She’s the only one who hears Steve. Edging herself closer to the other side of the door. She already thinks he’s weird and why fight it. He is. He’s weird. He’s strange. He’s eighteen years old and he’s never been as weird and as strange as he is right in this moment in this tiny stuffy coconut scented bathroom in a cozy loving home that isn’t really his.

 

—

 

Billy announces he’s done by tossing the comb into the sink, flicking the hairdryer off, and clapping his hands together above his head. He steps back and says with his arms spread out as wide as he can with four people taking up a space meant for one, “and _that_ , bitches and bitchettes, is how it’s done. In your face. Your welcome. Suck it.”

Dustin turns his head left and right, hands hovering over his hair, staring in awe at his reflection. “Oh my god, it actually looks—“

“— _really_ big.” Max finishes for him. She rubs her nose and quickly says, “but, good. Like. Really great too.”

“Totally righteous, Henderson. Really dramatic, but super, like, _good_.” Steve says. Giving him a thumbs up in the mirror that's not remotely sarcastic. Dustin’s hair looks good. No one would be able to tell he flat ironed any of it. It’s all curly and staying in place and holding.

Dustin’s new do is an architectural marvel.

“I wanted to say you looked like a poser, but,” Billy shrugs, “shit’s tight, kid. I’m amazing.” Billy’s grinning at him, every inch smug. Problem solved. He’s the hero. He’s proud to show Steve what he can do and rub his nose in it. He says, “my head still up my ass, Harrington?”

Steve hems and haws and bobs his head, not really thinking it over at all. “So far up you can see the back of your teeth.”

Billy's tongue is out, grinning.

Dustin fawns over his hair in the mirror. Max tries to set Tews on top of Dustin’s hair. Dustin screeches

“Thanks.” Steve says when Dustin won’t. It’s important, he thinks. Moments like this. Words like this.

 _Thanks_ rolls off of Billy. Nice things tend to do that with him. _Now I'm back in the ring to take another swing/‘cause the walls were shaking/the earth was quaking/my mind was aching_ plays. Billy primps his own curls in the mirror over Dustin and Max’s heads, fiddling with the spotlight curl up front.

Billy catches Steve eye in the mirror, crooks his finger to _come over here, pretty boy_ and dips his fingers into what’s left of the gel and he’s quick, he’s lightning, his hands are in Steve’s hair, pulling it back, molding it into whatever he pleases and Steve stands there and feels every one of his hairs being combed, the dull scrape of Billy’s fingernails on his scalp, miles gentler than he was with Dustin, watches Billy’s face for the crackling electricity to spread from Steve to shock Billy too and startles when Billy’s eyes are back on his and his hands are still in his hair and Dustin and Max are still here in this too small bathroom.

“Can’t go out in public lookin’ a mess, Harrington.” Billy says.

Behind Steve a flash goes off.

Billy’s lightning. He’s a spark on Steve’s skin and he’s gone and out of orbit.

Claudia’s in the doorway, lowering her polaroid to reveal plump, ripe tears prickling in the corner of her eyes.

“Oh Dusty. My baby boy, look at you! You’re so—you’re so grown up!” She says, voice wobbly. She rushes passed Steve and Max to pull Dustin into a tight suffocating hug, careful of his hair and the photograph in her hand. Dustin whines _mo—m_.

Billy shoulders passed Steve and he’s out the door.

 

—

 

Billy’s in Dustin’s room. He’s pulled back the curtains and has one foot on the window sill and both hands trying to pry the window open. It’s cracked two inches and locked up, letting in a sharp biting cold. Billy’s arms bulge and he’s _grunting_ , there’s sweat at his temple, but it refuses to budge. The window’s as stubborn as Billy.

Steve stands in the doorway, piecing together the last ten seconds and what Billy’s doing now. Took the wrong turn in the hallway and stuck with his decision and is trying to _flee_ because, you know, that makes sense somehow. There’s a _why_ that’s none of Steve’s business and Billy won’t tell him, but. But.

Steve quickly checks behind him—the hallway’s clear. There’s another spontaneous photoshoot happening in the bathroom. Dustin’s whining. Max is laughing loudly. The flash of the polaroid camera bounces down the carpeted hallway and wood paneled walls. Steve quietly closes the door and inches his way closer to Billy.

“I still have your gloves.” Steve says. They’re stuffed in his front pocket. He pulls them out and waves them at Billy’s back.

“Keep’m.” Billy says. He tries a different hold on the window and the wooden frame starts to groan, then creak.

“That’s a window.”

“Got that, thanks.”

“There’s, like, a door?” Steve points over his shoulder for no one but himself. “That way? You know?”

“Ain’t riskin’ it.”

The wood _creaks_ painfully and Steve can see the cracked sill, the wood bursting under the pressure of Billy's heel, splinters flying like shrapnel all over the room.

“You’re not even wearing a jacket. You’re gonna freeze and then—then _die_.” Billy ignores him. He hasn’t even said anything about the walls of absolute Nerd. “Dude, what the hell is your damage?”

Steve asks it quietly. The words need to stay in this room and not _drift_.

Billy’s back, bunched up and straining and shirt pulled taut between his shoulders—all at once he goes loose. He lets go of the window and looks at Steve, mouth twitching, about to explain and struggling to keep whatever’s about to explode inside.

Two outbursts two days in a row is probably a lot for a guy who tries to keep his shit close to his chest.

“I’m not you.” Billy spits out. “I don’t get a hard on babysitting your fan club.”

“Yeah. Right. _Totally_ didn’t pick up on that at all.”

“I just. I don’t—“ Billy grinds his teeth together, his hands clenching into tight fists that shake at his sides. “I don’t need some random bitch playing mommy at me.”

Steve stops. His face goes hot. His head goes hot.

“Don’t call her that.”

Billy smiles. Mean and unhappy and out for the kill and he gets in Steve’s face, makes it so there’s ignoring what he’s said, no brushing it off, Steve’s got to deal with his bullshit.

“What?” Billy says, cocking his head. Smile growing bigger and sharper and more punchable by the second. “Do you _like_ her, Stevie? Did you really fall for all that caring mom bullshit?”

Steve puts his hand on Billy’s chest to push him back. He doesn’t get to the second part of that plan. He hesitates.

“She’s not _bullshit_ —she’s _nice_.”

“ _Nice_.” Billy spits the word out. He shoves Steve back and keeps pushing him and Steve goes, looks Billy in the eye with every step backwards he takes and every step forward Billy takes until Steve’s back is pressed against the door and Billy’s on top of him and his leg is between Steve’s and his breath is Steve’s breath and he’s solid and _hot_ and Steve’s panting, his skin bristles with cold and inside—inside he’s on fire.

Billy’s hand is firm on his chest, fury igniting the blue in his eyes.

“She’s _nice_.” Billy says low, his hand flat on Steve’s sternum, bunching up his shirt and his voice lands a gut punch to Steve, twists him up. Ugly. Panting for it. _Christ_. “Harrington, all _that_ in there is just a load of bullshit. She doesn’t care about you and like _fuck_ does she care about me. It’s all a fuckin’ act. Nothing about this house is real. Bullshit is still bullshit no matter how nice it looks.”

Billy steps back. Pushes himself away and knocks Steve into the door. He shakes his head, jaw clenched tight.

“Fuck this.” Billy says tiredly then more forcefully, angrily, bitingly. “ _Fuck this._ ”

Billy goes back to the window, slams his foot on the sill and brutally he grabs at the bottom of the window frame and pulls and pulls and the window makes one last heartfelt groan before giving in, like everything and everyone always does, to Billy’s demands.

Steve thinks, _yeah, you’re right, fuck this_ and grabs the back of Billy’s shirt and before Billy can get his foot out the window, Steve hauls him backwards by his collar, yanking him hard and with every ounce of strength while Billy’s still too far up his own ass, still unsuspecting, still having the audacity to think Steve would just let him go out in the cold like this, pissed off like this so he yanks Billy back inside, pops a button off of Billy’s shirt and Billy is knocked into Steve’s chest and the two of them topple to the ground in a heap of curses aimed _mostly_ at Steve and confusing attitudes and annoying dickwads who don’t know how to handle a good thing when it’s handed to them in a snowman mug.

Steve gets elbowed in the stomach and he’s told to _fuck off_ at least—lowballing it—thirty times in the span of ten seconds.

“Why are you so full of it?” Steve says and it doesn’t come out that clean, he’s got Billy on top of him and the words are muffled against blue cotton and solid, enraged muscles. He mutters it. Grunts it out, annoyed.

Billy rolls off of him and they lay side by side, Steve on his back catching his breath and Billy on his stomach on the beige carpet and Dustin’s clothes Steve can only hope are close to clean.

Billy’s head hangs down, curls fall over his face and shoulders. His hands are clenched tight into fists.

In the hallway is the last track of his totally amazing hair mix tape playing and Dustin arguing with Max and there’s the loud grind of the polaroid processing the latest photograph. The cold fills up the room and Steve’s still running hot on the rush. 

Steve sighs loud, long, sighs until his throat scratches and his lungs are being squeezed for whatever they’ve got left in them. He pops his back on the floor. Touches the dried gel in his hair and cracks it a few times. Checks his pocket—yeah, the stud earring is still there.

“She’s not a bitch.” Steve says.

Billy shrugs the best he can with his elbows digging two inches deep in the carpet.

“You’re like. You’re like such an asshole. You’re the assholiest asshole. You’re like an asshole made outta douches. Literal douches. The kind you buy from a literal store.” He watches Billy, listens to his ragged breathing, and thinks about reaching out with his own Steve Harrington hand to tuck some of those curls back over his shoulder, behind his ear so Steve can see his face. “Is this really so bad?”

Billy lifts his head to glare at him.

 

—

 

“Oh my god.” Billy says. He’s standing in front of the wall Steve isn’t allowed to even glance at with his mouth hanging open. “Oh my jesus h. _balls_. Just. _What?_ ”

Steve’s neck aches from how quick Billy drops that icy, _stab Steve in the chest a couple dozen times_ look to bounce on his heels, giddy over Dustin’s wall of Nerd.

They should just go outside. Have a smoke. Billy had the right idea, maybe. Steve can steal Billy’s car keys to keep him from driving off. Tell him his hair looks real good and the usual Indiana winter chill can keep Steve from sweating too much when he asks what Max meant by _plans_ and if Steve’s a part of those or if Steve’s been reading a lot of things wrong.

The top button on Billy’s shirt is missing and Steve can see that dip between his collarbones now. Splattered gel is drying on his bandages all the way up his arm. Steve pokes at it. Wipes at it with his thumb and lingers slightly at the texture of damp gauze on an arm like Billy’s. Billy doesn’t seem to notice.

Billy plucks one paper off the wall, the pin rips through the top. Steve cringes. There’s going to be no hiding that from Dustin.

“You better remember where that goes.” Steve warns him.

“Already forgot.” Billy says, at best, half-assed. Too busy reading. Billy’s going to destroy Dustin. He’s found his Little Boy and Fat Man. “ _Stevious of Altera encounters the great dragon of the south, blocking the frozen gates holding one of the seven crystals_ —what did I just read, Harrington?”

“Literally— _literally_ , look at me, Hargrove—you cannot say a word about this to _anyone_.”

“But this is _beautiful_.” Billy points at the paper and Steve spots a small drawing of a dragon in the corner.

Steve swipes the paper out from Billy’s grasp and searches the wall for an empty space a lonely pin that’s lost its page might call home, but there’s so much of what Steve isn’t supposed to be looking at and he’s trying _so_ hard to not ruin a game he’s probably not going to play and his socks will still be on his feet and nothing will ever be rocked off ever again.

Steve really should have paid more attention.

The motto for his whole goddamn _life_.

 

—

 

For one last photograph that’s really the rest of the polaroids in the pack, Claudia gather all four of them up and herds them in front of the mantle, squeezes them together to fit into the square frame of the polaroid with Steve and Billy standing behind Dustin—in a nice plaid suit and bowtie now—and Max.

Dustin tugs at his bowtie, trying to straighten it or loosen it, the back of his neck is shiny with sweat and Max keeps nudging him to _quit it_ and _just stand still and smile, Dusty_ —Steve feels bad for the kid. Nervousness like that radiates heat. Dustin’s a fire starting to make Steve sweat.

Steve hurriedly combs at his hair with his fingers, trying to straighten it out, give it some oomph by feel after the brief and annoying tussle that messed it all up only for Billy to shove his hand into Steve’s hair and it’s unexpected and a tidal way of sensations crashes into him in two seconds flat all over again—Billy's fingers, his nails, the smooth leather of his glove, the firm press of his fingers messing up all his hard work, devastating the thick fields of his do—and Steve’s oversensitive and overaware, has been all day as Claudia tells them to say _cheese!_ and _smile!_ looking right at them, at Steve with Billy's hand in his hair.

Right before she pushes the button, Steve uses that rush inside him to throw his fingers up and stick them into Billy’s nose, laughing outrageously, ridiculously when Billy makes a strangled surprised grunt from the back of his throat.

Steve’s got good aim when he means it.

Claudia has the polaroids spread out on the kitchen table. While she hugs Dustin, Steve wanders over and picks out one of the photos. A group shot. His hair’s a wreck. Billy’s got two of Steve’s fingers in his nose, making a disgruntled face, that plastered on, stiff as cardboard smile is startled off of him and replaced by something genuine.

He slips it into his jacket then his backpack and then there’s a hand on his arm and Steve freezes up, mortified and blushing and it’s not like he’s doing anything _wrong_ , really. It’s explainable. Perfectly justifiable. Excusable. Panic’s in his genes. It’s rushing through the blood in his cheeks, making everything so stupidly obvious.

It’s Claudia.

The relief’s sharp. Leaves his mouth dry and his knees to shake and his hands to flap around and his mouth to try and come up with anything and land with nothing.

“Before you go.” She says, kindly and smiling still sweetly up at him because she doesn’t know. She hands him a yellowed index card. The upper right corner of it is burnt. She puts her finger to her lips. “It’s a family secret. Don’t let the Sinclairs see this. Martha’s been after me for the recipe for _years._ ”

Steve flips the card over. It’s the recipe for snickerdoodles.

 

—

 

The camaro’s heavy with nerves, stuffed full with thirteen year old anxieties coming to the surface to cloud the small space in the cabin, overpowering the stink of years of smoking. Billy’s got the radio on low, a plain strange and worrying sign he’s still bothered. Iron Maiden should be playing and Steve’s head should be hurting from the _noise_ and instead it’s someone with a ukulele singing softly about loving one another.

The drive to the middle school is short, hardly two miles, but Dustin’s fidgeting, making the upholstery squeak underneath him. There’s a tic in Billy’s eye that’s growing more violent and Steve’s counting down the seconds before he snaps. He has one hand on the wheel, playing it bored and uncaring with his expression, like he isn’t listening to Dustin talk himself into panicking, while his grip on the wheel twists and squeals, knuckles popping every time Dustin so much as takes a breath.

Billy’s ring sparks from the street lamps they pass under.

The tension that had stuck out so badly back at the Henderson’s leaves Billy with every roll of the camaro’s wheels, taking Billy farther and farther away from Claudia and the _bullshit bullshit bullshit BULLSHIT_ , loosening with every slight movement from how he turns the wheel to the loose tilt of his head.

 _Bullshit_. Steve’s haunted by _bullshit._ It’s a bee sting in his eye. A pack of demodog’s panting in the woods. It sticks with him and apparently it’s got beef with Billy too.

Dustin just _won’t_ stop talking and even Steve’s chest is starting to constrict.

“It’s just a _dance_ , jesus, kid.” Billy’s leaning his head on his hand and glancing up at the rearview mirror to ask _why can’t you shut up_ with only his eyes, but it goes unnoticed by anyone except for Steve.

Dustin has untied his bowtie and is asking Max if girls would be _at all_ impressed if he dropped the moonwalk on them, as though that’s something he can do and maybe he _can_ and maybe Steve would ask him if he thought it’d distract him at all.

Max kicks the back of Billy’s seat, the quiet _thud_ sound is as familiar as the camaro’s engine and asks Dustin _why he thinks all girls are one person_.

“Well, would _you_ be impressed with a guy who could moonwalk?”

“If this was a movie and you were played by, like Johnny Depp then, like, I guess? Can you even do that?”

“I did it once?”

“You might not want to? Then?”

Steve rolls his window down and gets a face full of icy winter air that’s better than any peppermint or mouthful of Listerine. The camaro’s starting to shrink. Too small. Too dark. Too full of stress. The woods are all around them and his bat is back home where it’s been for two entire weeks.

Steve touches his pocket—there’s the stud earring. The smallest tiniest bump. Billy’s right beside him, rolling his eyes and Max is behind him, asking Dustin to _not_ _be embarrassing_ _please_ and Dustin is talking to himself and the entire car, saying _I think maybe this really is a bad idea_.

He’s a ball of nerves. Thirteen years old. A nerd. A loser. A good kid. A really good kid. An awesome kid. A kid who helped save the world. Not someone who should be scared of a bunch of girls thinking he’s _weird_.

Steve’s told him a million times the dance will be fine. Fine is good. _Fine_ is the best thing a guy could hope for sometimes.

Steve turns around to give Dustin his full attention.

“You’re gonna be fine.” He tries to sound reassuring, like he knows for sure, without any doubt, that Dustin will find a girl to dance with him and maybe give him a peck on the cheek. Steve hopes, but he doesn’t _know_.

“I ruined my bowtie, Steve. Look at it—“ Steve does. Limp ends dangling in Dustin’s hand. “My bowtie is _dead_.”

“Chill with the drama. I can retie it when we get to school. No biggie, dude. You’re gonna be looking sharp. Feeling sharp. Just—it’s gonna be A-OK. You gotta breathe, man.”

“I am.”

“It’s gonna go great.”

“That’s not true.”

“It could be?”

“Like— _like_ my entire school career is it being _not_ A-OK. I, in no way, belong at a dance. With girls. Popular girls. Popular _guys_. Oh my _god_ , I’m gonna get my ass kicked.” Dustin’s shoving his face into his hands and Max pats him on the shoulder, awkwardly, wincing for him.

Will is probably doing this too. Maybe even Mike and Lucas.

“Get him to chill and shut up or I’m driving into the fucking quarry, Harrington.” Billy says through clenched teeth. They’re two blocks away from the middle school and Steve can see the lights of the building lit up from here.

Dustin probably won’t get out of the car.

Steve gives in. Goes for broke. Dignity is for people who need it and Steve’s happy to give whatever he’s got left up to Dustin.

Not _happy_ , exactly. He’d like to keep it. Desperate times, though. Spending the night watching movies at Dustin’s isn’t what he’d been hoping for from tonight. Billy’s not going to set foot in the Henderson’s again. It’ll just be him, Dustin, and Steve’s _could’ve been’s_.

“I’m gonna tell you something. You gotta _swear_ not to tell anyone, _especially_ Mike. He’d shove it in my face and that kid is _annoying_.” Steve says and Dustin nods, wide eyed, ears perked up, wanting everything to be just as Steve said it would be— _fine_.

Steve points to Max. “Swear you won’t tell anyone?”

“I swear it.” Max says as serious as he’s ever seen her. Sarcasm _completely_ absent. She’d nearly sound believable if Billy hadn’t followed it up with _as if_ immediately.

Steve jabs his finger into Billy’s shoulder. “You too, no blabbing.”

“Who am I telling?”

“You talk to _people_.”

“No, I _dont_.”

Billy’s offended. It gives Steve a nice and tidy blip of being pleased with himself and being one of the people Billy _does_ talk to. He’ll set this accomplishment right next to his baseball trophies. Finally, something new to add to the shelf covered in dust.

It’s short lived. Only a second. A very nice second.

He says, “Just, keep it to yourself, _okay?_ ”

“Cross my heart.” Billy lazily draws an _x_ over his chest.

Steve rolls up his window. Shuts off the radio. Ignores Billy’s small and quiet whine of _ugh_. Shifts to get more comfortable in the seat then decides it’ll be easier to say all this facing outwards, away from everyone and their judgment.

Steve takes a deep breath just as they’re pulling into the parking lot. Billy parks at the edge, closer to the high school, the closest he can be to the middle school without _being_ at the middle school. Sets the car into park.

“So. Okay, um. So. Like. It’s, you know. It’s 1980.” Steve sets the scene. Uses his hands. Smiles. That’s what he does. _Smiles._ “And it’s like a whole new decade. And—and a new Steve. _Caddyshack_ , like, just came out and Rodney Dangerfield was—“ Steve nodded his head as tried to figure out how to go about this, “—he was making _waves_.“

Steve chances a glance sideways—Billy’s eyebrow is up and hidden under a curl and the small smile on his lips, just on the edge of laughing, is warmer than the heat blowing through the vents. His body turns towards Steve, his back against the door. Settling in.

“It’s my first dance ever. Like, _ever_. I didn’t go freshman year because I was too puss—too _nervous_ and shit. Couldn’t even ask a girl out or anything. I got all sweaty and, like, gross. Just, real gross. I wouldn’t want to be asked out by 12 year old me either, shit— _Tiffany_ ,” Steve says to Billy, “she literally just—out of fucking _nowhere_ —told me I was her boyfriend now. Like. Kid-me did not have The Mojo.”

“Who’s Tiffany?” Dustin’s confused, so is Max.

Billy’s got a twitch to his lip saying Steve’s got to think faster than whatever Billy’s about ready to fire off— _the chick who beat Steve to a pulp in front of the entire cafeteria_ or _the hot ticket who let slip Steve’s a god at color coordinating balloons._

Steve would care if he wasn’t trying to chew through the annoying and horrible and just the _worst_ realization that Dustin doesn’t remember the shitty Keith-corner Steve had been forced into.

“What do you mean _who’s Tiffany?_ ” Steve throws back. “Are you telling me you don’t remember? _Tiffany Mazzanti?_ Tiffany. _The_ Tiffany.”

“I don’t know who that is, that’s why I asked. Because I would like to know.” Dustin explains slowly and Steve knows—he _knows_ there’s not a damn soul in all of Hawkins, which might as well be the whole world, who thinks Steve is anything other than a complete idiot.

“I’m not doing this right now. I will be doing this on Monday, so, _don’t forget that,_ but I’m not doing this _right now_. Dustin. I swear—“ Steve shakes his head. The dance has already started. More cars are arriving. He’s supposed to be _helping_. “So, _so_. It’s 1980 now and I ask a girl out.”

“Woah.” Billy drags out the word.

“Yeah. It is a _woah_. Thanks.” Steve says. “ _Anyways,_ her name was Maureen. Real cute girl, even with the braces. And, okay, it sounds impossible, but it’s not. She rocked those metal teeth. She smelled like—like strawberries—the best, most ripest strawberries.”

Maureen had moved away half-way through freshman year during high school. Steve had promised to write and never did. Too embarrassed and distracted and in love with a half dozen other girls.

Billy groans, head tilted back so Steve only sees the stretch of tendons in his neck and his Adam’s Apple jump.

“Harrington, we get it.” Billy says. “You dated pretty little girls.”

“Don’t make it sound weird.”

“ _She smelled like strawberries_.” Billy puts a hand to the side of his face, swaying side to side. His voice goes high pitched, lovey dovey. Mocking, coated in enough sugar for Steve to get flustered rather than pissed.

“Shut up, Hargrove.” Dustin says.

“No.” Billy shoots back, bored.

“Was that supposed to be _me?_ ” Steve says.

“That was perfect. I got your _I’m the town’s golden boy_ schtick down.”

“How am I bad at impressions if _this_ is what you consider good. My Brando is so spot on. Give me an oscar.”

“Taste, bitch.”

“Or _being a douche-fuckle_ , douche-fuckle.”

“Like, je-sus-h-christ, I’m just gonna crawl out the trunk.” Max groans and starts tugging at the middle of the backseat.

Billy throws his arm behind him and snaps his fingers at her.

“Don’t you fucking _dare,_ Maxine. You get that sweater dirty and it’s my ass on the line.”

Max throws her hands in the air. “Then will you two just hurry up before the dance is freaking _over?_ This story is taking literally _years._ ”

“Don’t be rude, Maxine.”

“When you say my name right _for once_ , I won’t, _Billy_.”

They glare at each other over the car seat separating them and Steve imagines kicking his foot up to get them to break eye contact and just take a breath and _chill_ and how it would not go over well with either one.

Especially Billy.

Feet on the upholstery is worse than Cheerios in the footwell.

Steve claps his hands. A few times. Hard enough for his palms to tingle and get a little warm and for the never ending Hargrove-Mayfield battle to take a time out and for Steve to get the attention he deserves, _thank you._

“ _So_ , as I was trying to say, it’s my first dance and it’s the—the first time I will ever slow dance. _Ever_. I don’t know where to put my feet. Or my hands. I was freaking. Totally sweating through my tux. You know—like, I don’t wanna be slapped and I was so sure I’d do something wrong and get my teeth knocked in and, like, scare Maureen off. Hargrove knows what’s up.”

A lengthy, not at all good for the timing of the story pause later and then Billy says, “sure.”

“Back me up here, man. C'mon.”

“I’m fuckin’ _trying_.” Billy bites his thumbnail with his canines.

“God—okay. Whatever. The fast songs I can do. You just bounce around. Who gives a shit, you’re a kid. It’s middle school. But then the slow song starts.” Anne Murray singing through the speakers. Steve had spent most of the dance with Tommy and his date, the four of them dancing as a group, avoiding the one-on-one. “And Maureen is giving me this—this really, like, intense  _look_. You’ll know it when you see it. There’s no getting out of it. You’re in it until it’s over and I’m having a genuine, honest-to-god breakdown and I sort of—”

Steve waves his hands around his mouth. No one gets it. Why would they. A blank face from all of them.

_Idiot._

“I sort of—“ He waves his hands around some more. He can still remember the exact part of the song. _There I go by, just fall in love again and when I do/I can't help myself, I fall in love with you._ “I—I sort of. I ralphed in my mouth and then she kissed me.”

It’s not the worst thing he’s ever done. He’s done plenty of shitty things this year alone. Anne Murray would still have been mortified.

It’s just the silence in the camaro, how even the camaro’s engine has gone quiet and it’s the blood ballooning inside Steve’s head making him go red and then redder and to look out the window and then to maybe tell everyone to fuck off in defense of twelve year old Steve.

Billy’s the one who breaks first.

Ducks his head, his shoulders tremble then shake, he slinks down in the seat, hand over his eyes. He’s grinning with his teeth bared. The kind of painful laughter that splits sides, chokes the air out of a person and prevents him from sucking any back in. Silent and overwhelming and painful. Billy sinks in his seat, shaking.

Billy stomps his boot on the floor and the vibration hits Steve in his heel and shoots up his leg, shakes him and jump starts Steve into laughing too. 

“Was that supposed to make me feel better or just give me the worst case scenario that’s totally plausible?” Dustin says, his voice cracking on nearly every other word. “I ate dinner. I ate a lot of dinner, Steve. Why didn’t you stop me? _Why did you tell me that, Steven?_ ”

Max covers her face with her hands. She’s bent over with her head on her knees. Steve barely hears her when she says, “how are you the cool one? Oh my god?”

Steve catches his breath after a few tries.

“ _I told you that_ because everyone can go to dances, even loser thirteen year olds who only got cool after they hit a couple home-runs during little league, okay? And you’re way cooler than that kid ever was.” Steve tells him. Wipes at his eyes and takes the deepest breath of his life, watching Billy slowly slouch himself off of the carseat, melting and hiding his face in his hands, saying _jesus christ, Harrington, jesus christ_ over and over between every new rolling burst of laughter warming Steve through.

“It’s middle school.” Steve says. “Everything changes in high school, so just, enjoy it, man. Ask a girl to dance. Just—just go for it.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When a chapter is heading towards 30k, it's time to break it up (again). I have my limits (shocking, I know).  
>   
> Thank you to everyone who's left a comment on this story. I seriously cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. (I reread your comments. so. much.) I will reply to everyone ASAP, but for the moment, just know, you own my heart.  
>   
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


	6. “Hold on to your ridiculous pants, Hargrove.” [6/6]

Steve fixes Dustin’s bowtie. Tells him _you’re gonna do great_. Sends him off to the dance with one last _the ladies are gonna go wild_ , saying it with every ounce of enthusiasm and hope and belief he has in in the kid. Mentally, Steve crosses his fingers.

Billy quickly fires off one last shot at Max in the time it takes for her to flee from the camaro and run to the entrance of the middle school. He leans out of the camaro’s window to shout, _LEAVE ROOM FOR JESUS_ and waves, grinning ear to ear, at all the parents and teachers and their appalled, confused faces.

Max sends him two middle fingers snuck behind her back and out of view from the _adults_. She’s quick on her feet. She should try out for track.

Steve’s embarrassed and exhilarated all at once. They’re probably going to get the cops called on them. Hopper might be on duty. He _might_ take it easy on them. Steve can’t quite figure out if Hopper likes him or not, though.

Imagining Hopper and Billy meeting hurts his head.

“She’s gonna smother you in your sleep.” Steve says.

Billy’s shrugs, unbothered. Gets out of the camaro to stand by Steve, tucks his scarf a little tighter around his neck, his nose already beginning to redden from the cold, his jacket open halfway down his chest refusing to submit to Indiana’s winter completely.

For a while they stay put in the parking lot that’s busy with parents grabbing _really, just one more!_ photograph of their kid, holding them in place with the camera lens, keeping them from escaping while _Jessie’s Girl_ plays from the gymnasium and Steve bops his head to the song and Billy pretends to not like it. Everyone likes it. Billy’s full of it.

Billy slips out the last smoke of his pack. His lighter takes four tries to spark. He takes a long pull, his cheeks hollowing creating these stark new shadows on his face. Frowning, he watches the parents and their kids and Steve wonders if he feels envious at what he’s seeing.

He passes the smoke to Steve. Their fingers brush. Billy’s warmer than Steve thought he’d be, warmer than Steve is.

The end’s still wet from Billy’s lips.

Steve holds the cigarette carefully, places it between his own lips _carefully_ , tongues at the filter, ignores the taste. It’s not about the taste. It’s not about the cigarette either. He doesn’t inhale yet, just feels what had been inside Billy that’s now inside him and what that could mean, what he knows it does mean to be feeling like this, out of sorts and too full and itching out of his own skin because he’s built up all these _things_ in his head.

Steve flutters.

At something so ordinary.

At something that tastes awful.

They’ve shared plenty of cigarettes. Blunts. _Drinks_. With Billy. With Tommy and Carol and most of the basketball team and people he can’t even remember.

Billy shouldn’t be special.

Steve pinches the cigarette between his fingers, breathes in, and hands it back to Billy. Careful not to touch him. He’ll lose what’s left of his head. Blows the smoke out with a sigh at himself. Grinds the soles of his shoes on the asphalt, the tiny pebbles scraping at the rubber, getting stuck in the grooves.

Ridiculous, that’s what he is.

 

—

 

The middle school’s parking lot is packed. The sounds of parents grasping at their children and kids wanting to grow up already fill the blanketing cold. The camaro’s solid and icy on Steve’s backside. Billy’s next to him, telling him _why_ Duran Duran sucks and why _Rio_ does in particular and Steve’s less twitchy on the edge of all this busyness that’s so ordinary and nostalgic, so he _doesn’t_ point out Billy must have listened to _Rio_ to know _Save a Prayer_ is on the B side.

Through the wide and welcoming double doors leading to the dance Steve spots Nancy.

It makes sense, fits the _Nancy Wheeler_ picture he has in his head of her that she’d be helping out at a junior high dance. President and vice president of the Christianity club. Always wanting to do the right thing. It has to be her. Unmistakably her. Framed by glittery gold lights and blue streamers and balloons. Nancy with her hair permed and pinned up in a dress Steve’s never seen her wear before. It’s new. It’s pretty. She makes pink and black tartan look delicate. She’s laughing. She’s happy.

Steve leans more on the camaro’s roof, sagging, watching her. Feels that pinch in his chest, the tightness, the lingering sensation that used to engulf him at just thinking about her or seeing her or hearing Don McLean on the radio or whenever Tom Cruise’s face pops up in a flick.

Neck deep in a sudden flash flood of lonesomeness, Steve thinks, _there’s Nancy Wheeler, the girl I loved who never loved me._

Billy moves to stand on the other side of Steve, leans against the camaro with his arm on the roof, blocking Steve’s view of the dance inside.

“Was all that true?” Billy says and Steve can only stare at him blankly.

“What?”

“The little—“ Billy wiggles his hand, eyebrows coming together, uncomfortable, but keen to know, “—the fruit girl story.”

Steve groans. Whines, “You swore to not talk about it, man.”

“I think I crossed my heart not to tell nobody and you ain’t _nobody._ ”

“Right.” Steve shuffles around on his feet. Crunches a dead leaf with his heel. Billy’s going to make fun of him no matter what. “Honestly, it was probably worse than how I remember. I’m not even sure she smelled like strawberries. Might’ve been cherries. Or, like, I don’t know. Just really sweet. Like sugar.”

Steve grimaces. Maureen was a nice girl. Really nice. He hasn’t thought about her since freshman year. She was all he thought about and then she didn’t exist. He can’t remember. What kind of person does that make him?

In his head, Nancy tells him the answer in the same tone when they’ve been studying for a half an hour and Steve still isn’t getting it.

He’s got it now.

 _Bull_ and _shit_.

Billy jabs the back of Steve’s shoulder with his thumb, the small spike of pain snaps him out of his head, back to the parking lot, to Billy’s waiting blue eyes, and the curl of smoke swirling around him.

“Think the nerd’s really gonna get a girl to dance with him?”

 _Maybe if he doesn’t talk too much._ “I hope he does.”

“So damn nice to that brat, Harrington.” Billy says, every other word thrown onto the blacktop, hitting hard, and not as mean as Steve thinks Billy would like them to be. Billy’s got a lopsided smile on, looking easy and drunk and smelling only like cologne and hairspray and hot chocolate, a magnetic combination. “Doing all this shit for him? Seriously, between you and me, what the hell does he have on you?”

“Hm,” Steve drags it out, “friendship? I think? Yeah, that sounds good.”

They finish the rest of the cigarette together, watching as more cars arrive and more parents take their kids’ photograph in front of the school, the two of them laughing when a frustrated kid would storm off inside in a dramatic huff.

Billy flicks the stub onto the asphalt between his feet and grinds it out with the toe of his boot. Steve’s already twitching for another smoke, to run a mile in the slicked up sludge that’ll be the field this time of day. He’s bouncing on his heels. Getting his calves warmed up. _Hopping._ Billy really did nail that one.

Steve forces himself to plant his feet on the ground and crosses his arms, changes his mind and shoves his hands into his pockets. He has gloves in his backpack. He should put them on.

He doesn’t.

He turns to Billy. There’s that frown again. He’s thinking about something unpleasant. Steve leans his arm on the camaro’s roof and his head on his hand.

“So? Let’s hear it, Hargrove.”

Billy glances at him. The frown fades. Steve’s reeled him back in. Billy crosses his arms, tilts his head up, chin up, all of him amused and on the brink of possibly playing along with whatever Steve’s come up with or shutting him down quick and brutal.

“ _Tit for tat._ ” Steve says. “I told you mine, you tell me yours.”

Billy narrows his eyes. “Mine?”

“No one else is around. C’mon. Spill.”

“I don’t know what you’re blabbin’ about, Harrington.”

“Embarrassing dance story? Let’s make it, like, Even Steven.”

“What makes you think I even _have_ one?”

“Hope?” Steve says. Wiggles his fingers around in the air like Billy does. “ _Everyone_ has one and don’t say _I’m not everyone_ because I’ll—I’ll snap. Like a damn twig.”

Billy licks his teeth, thinking it over to annoy Steve, test his patience. He spits on the ground.

“Fine.” He says. “How about _I’m not a cliche?_ ”

“The worst. Just the worst. Like, on a scale of 1-10, you’re in the triple digits, man. _The worst._ ”

“You know it.” Billy winks at him. _So_ the worst.

Steve sniffs. Rubs at his own cold nose.

There’s no getting anything out of Billy when he’s sober and wants to keep his mouth shut. Junkyard apologies or not, Billy’s got himself a set of sharp teeth and bares them to anyone who comes close.

Steve’s seen what happens on the other side, though, when Billy’s not snarling, not snapping his maw for the kill.

He wants to see more.

“I wanna kick your ass. All up and down Main Street.” Steve taps the camaro’s hood with every word. That tinny metal _thunk_ makes for great emphasis.

“Oh yeah?” Billy’s delighted.

“Yep. Slam dunk you into that pothole from ‘63.”

“Sixty-fucking-three?” Billy balks. “God. This town is the biggest smallest shithole.”

“Hawkins’ isn’t _that_ much of a shithole.”

It’s Hell if you don’t watch where you’re walking or if you’re poking around the woods or any of the top secret government facilities. Not that Steve can _say_ any of that. At best he’s got _don’t go into the woods at night_ and Billy’s not about to listen to that.

“Like,” Steve does say, “it’s better than _most_ of Indiana.”

Billy makes a face. “That’s like saying this dog shit is only slightly less shitty than that cow shit over by the freeway.”

“See, you’re already getting it.” Steve says. “And, hey, we’re getting a whole entire _mall_. That’s some pretty nice dog shit.”

“So all twenty people in this pile can grab a malt? ”

“Everyone’s gonna carpool on the weekends. It’s called a phone tree and it’s _real_ convenient.”

Billy tilts his head back to groan at the sky.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s tiny. It’s the worst. Try growing up here.” Steve says. Know a town too well and you’ll end up always on your toes checking over your shoulder and sleeping with an entire city of lamps to keep you company with a nail bat as your teddy bear.

 _Ridiculous._ And ridiculous is only slightly weirder than normal which is already just _dumb and terrifying and weird_ all on its own.

“Truth or dare—and you can’t pick _dare_.”

Billy clicks his tongue. “Dare.”

“ _No_ ,” Steve whines. It’s cold and dark and no one’s paying them any attention anymore so it’s _okay_ that he whines. “You’re supposed to say _truth_ then I ask you about your definitely humiliating dance story and you tell me and I get to laugh in your face.”

Billy let’s out a sigh that drags its feet turning into a big cloudy exhale under the lights of the school. He drums his fingers on the camaro’s roof and his secrets are his for a little while longer.

 

—

 

The problem isn’t Billy calling Claudia Henderson a _bitch_ or Steve acting like none of that happened or it turns out he’s exactly the person his dad hates or the monsters under their feet or how _goddamn_ cold it is or that he’s _bullshit_ and Nancy made the right call or _Tommy_.

No. It couldn’t be any of _those_ problems that Steve can keep on ignoring until eventually they either fuck him over or deal with themselves all on their own without his involvement.

The problem is Billy wants to go to the party in the middle of the woods.

_He’s going to go to the party._

Steve’s only got eighteen years of living in Hawkins in his back pocket, which turns out to add up to _only_ a handful of options to throw at Billy and hope he thinks any of them are worth his time.

“Well, we could break into school?” Steve says. Tosses it underhand and waits for Billy to bunt it like he’s done with all the other suggestions.

Billy makes a face. “So what? We can _learn?_ ”

“I don’t know—I think they emptied the pool?” Steve shrugs. The camaro’s growing icy against his side. Winter sucks. A lot. Winter’s the pits of the pits. “I thought we agreed on not going because it’s lame and cold and—are you like—“ Steve’s stomach slides unpleasant and damp into his shoes “—are you meeting up with someone or something?”

“Yeah, her name’s _keg_ and I’ve been waiting to go down on her all night.” Billy says. Scuffs his shoe on the gravel. “What else is there to do? Go to McDonald’s? Watch a tree grow? C’mon, Harrington. Get real and get fucked up. It’ll be fun. As fun as anything else to do in literal _Hell_.”

Billy slaps Steve on his shoulder, a quick jolting smack Steve leans into and rocks with.

Steve licks his lips. They’re chapped. So are his hands. His mom buys organic lotion and slips it into Steve’s bathroom when he’s not looking. It smells nice and does nothing to moisturize. His skin needs those chemicals.

The parking lot is emptying, anyone who’s left is too caught up in their own business to notice Steve and his.

“We could, like, go to my place? Watch a movie? My parents won’t be back until tomorrow and it’s warm.” He says it casually, focusing on a street lamp instead of whatever reaction Billy may be having.

He doesn’t care if Billy says yes. He doesn’t. He’s the chillest guy in all of the midwest. Clint Eastwood cool. They could watch _The Outsiders_. His dad might have a copy. Steve has no idea if it’s out yet.

 _It’s warm_. The lamest brag _Ever_. Steve hates himself. _Good god_ does he hate himself.

Billy slumps against the camaro, rolls his eyes and his head, his scarf loosening dangerously around his neck and there’s no possible way he isn’t _freezing_.

“Unless you want me drinking all your daddy’s brandy, we’re going.”

Steve’s shoulders droop. All of him droops.

“I knew you’d say that.”

He’s pouting. Whatever.

Billy’s got something against his house.

 _What—ev—er_.

“Then you got a real case of masochism goin’ for ya, stud.” Billy smacks the camaro’s hood this time, grinning, so excited he’s vibrating. “Just picture it, you and me getting trashed? Let’s blow the dirt off this shitpile.”

Steve chews at his bottom lip. The inside. The outside. He’s gonna make himself bleed. “No?”

Billy’s grin falls. “What’s that leave us—rotating my tires? Tippin’ a cow over?”

“It’s winter. They don’t leave the cows outside overnight. The milk would freeze.”

“ _Harrington_.”

Billy’s flat stare isn’t giving Steve any wiggle room and he doubts _I don’t want to watch you drive head first into miserable_ is going to fly.

Tina’s Halloween party. His house. Billy and alcohol means trouble for everyone in a ten mile radius, but especially Billy himself.

Steve doesn’t want watch the wreckage again. Doesn’t want Billy to hurt himself like that. Can’t get Billy crying in his room out of his head on any given day. How damn desperate he was to push himself under whatever scrap of alcohol the Harrington household had on hand.

Panic has Steve fighting against the possibility as hard as he can without giving himself away.

“I just—I don’t feel like getting drunk? _Like._ ” Steve thinks quickly. “We still have to come back here to pick them up.”

“Okay? I can work with that. We don’t have to get wasted. Buzzed.”

“ _Buzzed._ ”

“Yeah?”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Nothing?”

“You sure?”

“Just, you know, you can do buzzed. I can do buzzed. _Sure_. Whatever you say.” Steve tries to laugh it off. It’s not a real laugh. Billy definitely hears it for what it is—a whole lot of doubt.

“What the fuck you dancin’ around for? Say it.”

Billy pushes himself off the camaro, thumbs hooked into his jean pockets, ready to throw down with hurt in his eyes, between his brows, in the sharp downturn of his lips—not at all what Steve wanted.

“It means—“ Steve shakes his head. Picks at the frumpy end of his winter coat’s sleeve. Watches another pair of parents take a photograph of their kid and her date out front by the entrance. The mom kisses her daughter’s head. The dad shakes the girl’s date’s hand.

Steve’s mom had bought him a tux, the dress shoes, took him to a tailor to get it fitted, took him to the salon to get his hair done, gotten pictures of him taken by her photographer friend from the city, picked out the corsage he’d give his date and the matching flower he’d have in his jacket.

She would have found him a date too if he hadn’t finally ripped the bandaid off and asked someone himself.

His dad had driven him to the school and the only words he’d said about the dance and Steve and Steve’s jumping nervous leg was _have fun_ and _no funny business_. He hadn’t gotten out of the car. Hadn’t taken any photos by the entrance. Dropped him off and then a couple hours later picked him back up just as quietly and uninterested as ever.

Steve imagines a smaller Billy with golden curls cut into a miniature mullet framing chubby cheeks with the same too-big attitude forced into a suit, going to a dance in California, stepping on his date’s toes while wishing he was dancing with a boy from his class. Remembers how it felt to stand in the tub with Billy, his bare feet next to Steve’s, swaying soft, wet, warm, a live wire of want against him. Billy stepping on his toes. Billy giggling into his shoulder. Billy humming. Billy so close and so soft and so out of his head drunk and intangible.

Flustered, Steve gives in and his hands are doing what they’ve wanted to do since leaving the Henderson’s house and Billy decided to be too cool to be warm—he zips Billy’s leather jacket all the way up. Tucks in Billy’s scarf the way he should when it’s this cold out. Fusses over him the way someone should because it’s cold and Billy’s some hothead from the west coast who doesn’t know a damn thing about how to dress for a midwestern winter. It’s satisfying and Steve’s blushing and he’s _ridiculous._ Everything and everyone is ridiculous, but Steve more so than anyone.

Billy lets him, watches him closely and Steve only glances up at his face a few times to prove his point with a silent _you idiot_ and sees the reflex of anger and hurt tied up together unwinding out of him as he stands still to let Steve work through his outburst.

That sprung-up knee-jerk tension disappears. His thumbs are out of his pockets. The fight’s gone.

His face is warm and he’s breathing quick little puffs of air that must be morse code for _S.O.S._ , so he turns his head and his attention back on the school and the solid chilly press of the camaro. That’s a battle for some other time. For someone else. Billy’s not Nancy and Nancy didn’t want Steve butting into her business either.

Steve should move on, but now he knows. That’s the problem too.

“I think I’m just tired of the people at school. They’re all—“ _the same, year after year_ , “—besides, Tommy’ll be there and that’ll be a whole _thing_ and it’s like why bother? Just a bunch of dumbasses getting drunk and, like, stirring up shit.”

Billy eyes him, searches Steve up and down for a lie to call him out on, a long minute where Steve stands there in the cold, hopes Billy sees that Steve means this just as much as anything else. Not a lie, just a different truth.

“He got you spooked?” Billy says.

“I’d just rather avoid another round.”

Billy turns his head away, looks out at the other cars leaving the parking lot.

“Maybe I’ll go on my own.”

“Go ahead.”

“I will.”

“You got the car keys, hombre.”

“Sure do, amigo.”

“Not stopping you. At all.”

“Couldn’t if you tried.”

“I’m super happy to walk home. I’ll eat all the popcorn myself. I cannot wait.” Though Steve doesn’t move from the camaro and neither does Billy.

What Billy does is roll his shoulders and stick his hands into his pockets in a huff, seeing through Steve’s bluff, through his awful, ugly, _frumpy_ winter coat and god know’s what else while Steve’s cheeks melt the ice caps and it almost seems like he’s about to say something when Billy’s heavy gaze drifts to Steve’s left and off of him and that’s not what Steve wanted to happen either.

Billy’s face does this _thing_ that makes Steve dread whatever’s sauntered up behind him.

Keith’s walking with a girl around Dustin and Max’s age dressed in a frilly outfit and coat, ready for a middle school dance. The sight’s alarming and weird and _the most_ confusing, even more than simply seeing Keith existing outside of the arcade.

Steve catches Billy’s eye and mouths _did he kidnap a kid?_ to him. Billy just shrugs. There should be a warning whenever Keith decides to show up. Steve feels like he should call over an _actual_ adult to deal with what’s happening here.

Keith waves to Billy and Steve. He calls out, nasally and straight-faced with a flatline voice, “what’s up, my biatches!”

 

—

 

In one breath Keith tells them he’s walking his little sister— _her name’s Margaret, but she goes by Maggie_ —to the dance, that they live just down the street, their mom is divorced, his dad lives in Las Vegas, Keith _really hates_ Las Vegas, and his dad is _kind of a major douche_ —even though he _does_ pay child support on time, at least for the last four years—Keith only ever visits him during the summer for, like, two weeks at most _thank god_.

Keith introduces Maggie to them on the tail end. Steve can tell she’s going to have her own table in high school and probably become the head cheerleader from how she’s holding herself. The exact opposite of Keith.

Maggie glances at Billy then slowly turns to Steve now that their attention is on her and she goes wide-eyed and spring tomato red. She brushes all three of them off, walking away without a word.

“She’s usually pretty talkative.” Keith says, completely clueless.

Billy pulls out another cigarette from an inside pocket in his jacket, puffs on it, bites at the end. Keith keeps talking _and talking_ and Billy’s going to gnaw right through his smoke and Steve wants to tug at his sleeve, tell him _let’s motor_ when Keith says _congrats on the fight_ and _sucks you got suspended_ and _heard it was you against, like, five guys—you totally pulled a Tang Lung_ and Billy barks out a laugh like _yeah, he gets it_ and Steve _doesn’t_ and, like, _fuck you, Keith_.

There’s a lot to pick at in _all that_ , a lot that sours Steve, makes him click his boots together to get pissed off at, would like to say _you can shove that congrats up your ass_.

Keith might be a _friend_ but he didn’t see Billy afterwards, doesn’t have an apology making his chest ache just thinking about it—Keith doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about like the rest of the population of Hawkins. Word of god through Keith’s flapping lips. The story’s out.

Steve grabs Billy’s elbow, yanks his attention his way, digs his fingers into the soft body-warmed leather of Billy’s sleeve and Billy swings his eyes around to Steve.

“You got _suspended?_ ” Steve says.

Billy cocks his head. Moves his cigarette from the left side of his mouth to his right. Confused. Like he can’t understand _why_ Steve cares. He’s stupider than Steve. Five feet ten inches of downright dumb.

“No? I got detention for a week. I doubt they’re even gonna remember after the break.”

“Okay, but, like, you don’t, _y’know,_ tell me?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

Steve squeezes Billy’s arm tighter, curls his fingers in his jacket. Gives his brick arm a shake to get some sense up in that golden head of his. “Yeah, I’m getting that, but I’m the reason you were even in a fight.”

“Maybe I just wanted to punch Tommy in the face a couple’a times and you happened to be there.”

“Then you’ve got some real good timing.”

“Jeepers, Harrington. I don’t _narc_. Relax. You’re cool.” Billy pulls away. Steps back. Pulls his keys out to swing them around his finger and catch them in his palm. “My balls are about to freeze off.” Billy nods to Keith. “I wanna see this Tarlang bitch do a keg stand.”

The reference flies over Steve’s head. The implication smacks him across the face.

Keith’s tall enough and gangly enough and _nerdier than all the kids combined_ enough to get it. He says, “If I break my neck, you’re gonna have to walk Maggie home. And call my mom. And, like, cover my shift at the arcade.”

Steve’s really, _really_ not digging Keith.

 

—

 

Keith’s folded in thirty to squeeze into the backseat. His knees jam up against the back of Steve’s seat, jabbing knobby bones into Steve’s spine. The raspiness—almost wheezing—his warm Dorito scented breath wafts to the front of the camaro in spite of the heater on full blast to poke at Steve, hit him right behind his ear, refusing to let Steve block Keith out. Vince Neil, loud and hurtling through the speakers with Billy amping himself up by yelling along does nothing to distract him either from the _wheeze_ and _the party_ and that _Steve_ is going to be _at the party too_.

Billy turns the camaro sharp, drifts into an open spot on the side of the road lined with cars and throws the camaro into park, the tires squealing, the chains scraping, pebbles shooting out and hitting the undercarriage. They’re near the quarry. Steve can see the orange-white glimmers of a fire between the trees and dancing bodies. Hears the tinny sound of synth pop.

Before Billy gets out he turns to Steve, puts a hand on Steve’s forearm, above his wrist, right above his bare skin. Steve looks at his hand. A sure grip. Warm. Firm. Confident right now, in this one moment. Notices the worn leather of his glove. The knuckles have been split open. From fighting. Or maybe it’s a look. One of those California fashion trends like not buttoning a shirt.

Billy snaps his fingers to pull Steve upwards and gets snagged by blue in the dark.

“If Tommy even looks at you, I’ll end him.” Billy says. Serious. An eager glint for the fight sparks in his eyes and only brightens at the sharp, reassuring hold he has on Steve.

He claps Steve on the shoulder twice and he’s out of the camaro, shutting the door behind him, expecting Steve to know what to do with that kind of declaration. As though that’s really why Steve didn’t want to come. Like Billy can just _say all that_ and _leave_ like some sort of Prince Douchebag turned Charming.

Steve’s winded. Left with his mouth open and nothing to say. He’s got less than nothing. His head’s full of helium. One foot outside and he’ll land on the moon.

Keith pokes that same twice-clapped shoulder, makes Steve jump and hit his head on the roof.

“My legs are cramping.” Keith says.

“Yeah. Okay. _Shit,_ hold on.” Steve says, shakily, in a rush, heating up in a blaze of embarrassment at getting caught. Thinking, _did you see all of that?_ and _is it obvious? am I being obvious?_ and _damnit Keith_.

 

—

 

The bonfire’s grown big, bordering on burning the forest down, lighting up the entire clearing and all of its nooks and the people squeezed together and behind them—all around them—are the shadows moving along the trunks of trees as everyone dances and laughs and cheers for two weeks of freedom and watered down icy beer they’ve managed to drag out into the woods.

Ricky Shannon’s halfway up the tallest pine tree, the annual taxidermy deer head names _Rudolph_ with it’s nose painted red and antlers painted gold like angel wings in his hand. He’s standing on a thick branch waving Rudolph around, swaying closer and closer to falling off. His shadow stretches and bleeds into the tops of the pine trees. A group has broken off from the kegs and the warmth of the fire to yell at Ricky Shannon to _hurry up and jump already_ and _ya ain’t gonna make it, dumbass_.

Ricky Shannon’s in Steve’s history class. Steve’s known the guy since grade school. He’s as dumb as Steve and the only thing he’s good at is football. Not group projects. Steve had to carry his ass, did the whole thing himself. They bombed that assignment hard.

The party’s packed with the usual crowd. A boombox and speakers is propped up on low branches with the volume cranked all the way up to rattle your ears plays the usual music. Exactly how it is every year. Big. Loud. Cramped in an open space with miles of trees and nothing else around. Reindeer hats. Santa Claus hats. Guys trying to see how long they can last without their shirts on. Competing to see who’ll top the tree with old Rudolph.

In Steve’s sophomore year he managed to climb the tree all the way to the top to swing Rudolph on the evergreen’s peak. Nearly pissed himself doing it.

It’s like every Hawkins party. Just outside.

Next to Steve, Billy’s attracting attention and grins and fluttering eyelashes before he cups his hands in front of his mouth and hollers, drawing _everyone at the party_ to look his way and to see Steve too. Billy’s pulled him back into the limelight, thinking he belongs their with him, and the heat of it makes Steve wince while Billy glows under it.

Steve’s not the popular kid anymore. He’s no keg king. He doesn’t want their attention when it doesn’t mean anything at all, he’s not like Billy.

 

—

 

There are too many people too close to the woods, the trees, the dark, and Steve can’t warn any of them.

Steve watches Billy double fist two red cups, hammering them back without coming up for air. Buzzed means jack all. Steve wants to grab him and tell him to _slow down_ and that maybe they should just _leave_ , but Nancy hadn’t appreciated it. Billy won’t either.

Steve plucks himself away from Billy and Keith and the rest of the party and hedges towards the sidelines to plant his roots as a wallflower. Floats around picking up on what gossip there is by stepping right into it, avoids conversations to dance instead with people he doesn’t really have to make eye contact with in the shadows created by the bonfire.

For half a minute _Jingle Bell Rock_ plays before someone stops it and chucks the cassette into the fire.

 

—

 

The story blows up into several stories. Steve hears pieces of it. Gets congratulated for his part in it, a part that changes with every person.

 _Heard there were five guys. It was seven. It was the whole basketball team. Billy pulled a knife. Billy kicked Tommy through the wall, broke a pipe, that’s why the gym flooded—_ duh _. Tommy backhanded you and you cried. Tommy pulled a_ your mama _. Billy got his belt and choked that fucker out. Tommy had his brother’s brass knuckles, you see’m? Billy’s in some hardcore es-pan-yolé gang back in Cali. You curled up on the floor and didn’t do shit, what the Hell, Steve? Billy’s mom—_

Steve used to be the Keg King.

He chugs down three red cups he finds in other people’s hands.

The school’s gotten a kick out of what happened. Billy’s fucked off to surround himself with half the senior girls. Keith’s looming over all of them. He wonders where Tommy is, if he showed up. Steve doesn’t care about any of them. He searches through the crowd because he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He dodges blonds and tall freaks.

Steve] grabs another cup, nursing a fourth and barely feeling _much_ except a twitchy nerve swelling every time someone he’s known since _literally_ forever comes up to talk to him.

Now that he’s friends with Billy, he’s worth talking to.

He’s cool again.

Steve Harrington matters.

Tiffany Mazzanti finds him. Bumps into him. She’s giggling. She cups his cheek and puts her fingers up to his lips and rubs at them and _that_ feels nice, tingly. like he’s being kissed and Steve hasn’t been kissed in so long and she says real low and impressed, _I heard you pulled a Karate Kid_.

She’s reliving a camp crush. Swaying on her feet. Flushed and handsy with big dark eyes looking up at him and wanting something from him he would feel too guilty to give her.

Steve bites his teeth shut and pulls his head back when she tries to nudge her way inside.

 

—

 

Steve stands by the fire, sticks to it, swirling his cup of beer like his mom does with a good merlot, watching a bra someone threw into the fire burn and painfully aware he’s alone.

Last Year, Steve hadn’t gone to the party. He’d gone to the Wheeler household for a _nice_ and _normal_ family dinner. He’d worn one of his better sweaters and a pair of khakis to make a good impression. Prove he’s a Good Guy. A Good Normal Christian Boy who’s no bad influence and totally deserving of their daughter.

Nancy had spent the meal arguing with Mike, both of them in rotten moods.

Mrs. Wheeler barely sat at the table, constantly getting up and going into the kitchen to get _just one more thing_ and coming back smelling like a fresh cigarette.

Steve barely saw Mr. Wheeler’s face, he had a newspaper open the entire time and in that way he reminded Steve of his own dad. There but not really _there_.

Steve had spent the _nice_ and _normal_ family dinner making faces at Holly and trying to make her laugh.

Across the clearing there’s a _THUD_ and yelling and a chorus of groans. Rudolph’s lost an antler. They’ll have to glue it back on again. Someone’s broken their arm. Or their leg. Someone broke something and they’re laughing over it.

Steve checks his watch. It’s been twelve minutes. Or twenty. Maybe two. Remembering when they got here is, like, not going to happen.

Keith’s a lighthouse in the distance, gangly and managing to fit in better than Steve. Miriam Castellano’s hanging off Billy’s shoulder and Steve can’t spot where Billy’s hands are, but can see, even from all the way in his corner, they’re flirting.

Billy ducks his head to touch Miriam Castellano’s neck with his mouth. He’s kissing her neck. He’s kissing her. Making a show of it.

Steve touches the earring in his pocket. He probably should have just stayed in the camaro. He takes another swig and keeps on going.

 

—

 

Ricky Shannon’s in just his white undershirt. The left side of his face is scraped from his fall. He hadn’t managed to get Rudolph up the tree. Someone else is trying. There’s always someone else trying. It’s tradition. Every few minutes there’s another failed attempt and another round of groans and then laughter from that part of the clearing.

It might be Billy soon. Steve can’t watch if it is. _He can._ He doesn’t want to, though. He’d like to not pull his own hair out.

Ricky Shannon’s dad owns the local cattle farm and a couple hundred acres around Indiana and Ricky Shannon works the fields during the summer and has farm-raised muscles the rest of the year. He’s _big_. Steve eyes his trunk-like arms. Stares. _Ogles,_ maybe. Ricky Shannon’s nipples are hard. Poking through his shirt and into Steve’s awareness and he shouldn’t be looking so obviously, here, with everyone in everyone else’s business, not now that he’s back in the spotlight.

Ricky Shannon pulls Steve into a hug easily. Plants a wet kiss to the side of Steve’s face. He’s flat out drunk, rocky on his feet, giggly and red faced.

Steve wiggles out from his hold. Ricky Shannon wraps his arm around Steve’s waist and tugs him back in. Steve’s had five watery cups of beer. He’s got sugar in his shoes. Ricky Shannon isn’t a bad guy, level headed and dirt dumb as he is, but he bailed out on their History project and Steve’s still annoyed about it and he can’t be like this, not here.

What they think doesn’t matter, Steve doesn’t care, he doesn’t, but this is different and he has to.

The tinny sound of _I play along with the charade/there doesn't seem to be a reason to change/you know, I feel so dirty when they start talking cute_ wafts through Steve, around him, swirling over his head. He might be able to see the words floating through the air if he squints hard enough.

Ricky Shannon’s smiling at him for too long and Steve’s too damn everything for this right now.

“Helluva fight, Steve-o.” Ricky Shannon says. He nuzzles at Steve’s hairline and Steve struggles to keep hold of his drink. Drunk guys getting handsy and close up isn’t new. Ricky Shannon humming in his ear is. Steve trying to play this off and failing is straight out of the plastic packaging.

Ricky Shannon lets him go after one last squeeze and friendly smile that loiters around inside Steve, stumbling on to the next guy, the next girl. No one’s looking at them. It feels like everyone is. That everyone knows. His mind rushes to make up for his blushing, tells Steve he needs to find any girl and kiss her. Make a show of it.

 

—

 

“Thanks.” Steve delivers it flatly to whoever, as controlled as he can, jittery and too hot, staring at the white rim of his red solo, down at his shoes and the dried up pine needles and brown leaves they’re standing on, at his shadow, all of their shadows flickering from the fire, changing shapes into one big monstrous shadow that writhes on the ground just under their feet—

He might be a little bit drunker than he thought.

 

—

 

Steve doesn’t go looking for Billy. _He looks for Billy_. He just doesn’t _go_ looking for him.

He keeps to his corner of the party, avoiding any run-ins with him, reminding himself of Nancy and _bullshit_ and how she looked at him, disgusted, tired, not-in-love, not with him, _never with him._ Whenever Steve would manage to convince her to go to any party she’d have fun for ten minutes and it would go downhill from there, she could only stand so many people for so long. Steve didn’t get it until he did.

Billy’s surrounded by girls trying to get his attention and guys who roll their eyes and act mad, but want Billy to look at them too. His arm sits snug around Miriam Castellano’s waist. He’s happy with her. She’s happy with him. _He’s found his girl._

 

—

 

Steve’s not a kid.

He’s fine on his own.

He wants a smoke so bad and can’t think of anything else. Bums one off of Samantha who only comes to these things to get drunk. She hates her parents, her home life, this town just like the rest of them.

Steve sticks to his corner of the world.

He can’t be in Billy’s.

 

—

 

The fire’s at Steve’s backside. A chill crawls up his back and he pats at his pocket, shoves his hand in and touches that stud, small and reassuring and still there, rolling it between his two fingers for _just_ a second, a quick nothing of a second when Carol pushes passed him, realizes it’s him, and stops.

She glares at him and her face shifts, changes, remakes her expression into steel. She whips around and wrenches Steve’s drink away and tosses it on the ground and it splashes back onto Steve’s jeans. Just what he needed.

He laughs, ruffling Carol’s feathers.

“You know what? I don’t think we are friends. I don’t think you like me. I don’t think you even like Tommy anymore. I don’t—I don’t like you, Steve.” Carol says as if she ever actually liked him. With her back to the fire, her Madonna-blonde curls glow angelic-like. Her eyes—she means it this time. Steve doesn’t doubt it.

She spins on her heel. Steve catches her wrist and stops her. His head feels too hot, his grip on her slim wrist is too tight. He wants her to know he means this too.

“Go tell him—tell him if he tries that shit again, I’ll bash his teeth in myself and everyone’ll know.”

Carol’s anger changes to confusion. “Know what?”

“Ask him. He’s the one talkin’ his mouth off.”

Carol stares at him. She yanks her hand out of Steve’s grip, shoves herself through the crowd, more angry, more upset, she knocks over the biggest quarterbacks and the tallest basketball players to get where she wants. Steve tries to guess which version of the story Tommy told her and which version she actually believes.

Steve realizes only a second too late Carol’s headed for Billy. Charging for a fight. Steve tries to catch up to her, but he’s too far away to stop what’s about to happen.

Steve watches Carol push herself between Billy and Miriam Castellano to swing her hand all the way back and slap Billy across the face. Can hear the smack of her small pomegranate-lotioned hand hit Billy’s cheek, the gasps, the startled laughter that comes from shock, the collectively held breath of the people who saw what happen, waiting for Billy, the new kid from California with a downright bad reputation, to see what he does—all of it can be heard over the music and the dancing and the too too many people crowded into one spot miles from anyone.

And Billy.

Billy’s head snaps back laughing, wildly, happily, at Carol’s fury.

 

—

 

It’s Billy who ditches the girls and the boys latched onto him. Shakes off Miriam Castellano. Skips out on the whole little gathering he’s made for himself to jump over the border of Steve’s self-guarded corner. Steve sees him coming and waits for him this time, watches him out of the corner of his eye. Steve’s never played hard to get before. It’s strange. It’s not fun.

Billy catches him. Slings his arm around Steve’s neck, tucks him in close and holds him there firm, squeezes the sourness out of Steve with his forearm and bicep, turns him into lemonade with too much sugar on a hot day.

“C’mon. I wanna see if that nerd can pull a Regan.” Billy says, pretending he’s not a nerd too, that out here he’s somehow someone else. Cocky and self assured and every muscle he’s built seems to be made of confidence. Flashing those pearly whites as much as he can at Steve. Fake as hell.

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Got what I wanted.” Billy mutters, grin cracking under the weight of the truth. He squeezes Steve again, his side pressed against Steve’s. They’re close close close. “C’mon, King Steve.”

And that’s that.

Steve struggles to catch up. Stares at him, trips a couple of times, but Billy’s got a sure grip and it’s sort of amazing how it can be so dark and he can still see Billy’s freckles and the red spot where Carol had slapped him shining bright in the firelight. He’s not flushed like Nancy. His chest isn’t dripping in booze. He doesn’t stink of it. He might actually, unbelievably, be just buzzed.

Billy walks him through the party, refuses to loosen his hold and plows through people when they don’t move in time, says _fucking Indiana_ with a snarl not aimed at Steve, but at everyone who catches Billy’s eye, keeps Steve out of the way, sheltered by his own body as he pushes on through.

 _The Exorcist_ gave Steve nightmares for months afterwards. They were so bad he’d either sleep in his closet or go a few blocks down to sleep in Tommy’s bed because the devil couldn’t get him if the devil couldn’t find him.

It had made sense to his kid brain then. Tommy had been all for it. Was happy to have a sleepover on a weekday with his best friend while Steve was relieved to be in a house that felt more like a home, that just felt _better_. Safer. That’s what being in Tommy’s bed had been for Steve. A safe spot he could sleep without the terror of demonic possession.

Tommy’s house, Tommy’s bed, just _Tommy_ meant safety for the kid Steve used to be.

Now, Steve simply says, minutes and minutes later, “that movie was trippy.”

 

—

 

Keith lasts all of seven seconds before he’s sputtering out beer and Billy and Steve have to lower him back to the ground. Steve’s shoulder aches by the end of it. Keith’s bigger when you got him fighting gravity on top of a keg. He’s wearing socks that have tiny green frogs on them. Or they’re Christmas trees. Steve couldn’t tell which. He’d swear by both of them.

Billy’s pleased. His definition of _buzzed_ includes _not_ doing a keg stand. Had looked to Steve while Keith struggled to keep himself upright, guzzling down beer, like _see? told you I’d be good_ and Steve’s got no legs to stand on in this, any argument he has would be thrown in his face. Steve can feel the smugness from here.

Keith’s unsteady on his feet, hacking up both his lungs. Steve grabs his shoulder to keep him from keeling over at the same time Billy slaps Keith on the back. Hard. Calls him a _fuckin’ baby_. Jumping back on his mean streak. Never really leaves it for long. There’s that curl to his lip that would be charming if Steve didn’t know the road it’s leading down.

There’s a limit for everyone. Even Keith.

He swings his arm too wide and too slow and too high, really going for it. Putting all his _oomph_ behind it. Throws his entire body into it. Like he’s dancing. Going in for a twirl. This might be the first punch Keith’s thrown in his life and it’s a disaster.

Billy’s laughing when he easily ducks it and moves in to land a sucker punch to Keith’s gut.

Keith doubles over and pukes. Not exactly like _The Exorcist_. His head doesn’t twist around. It’s not green and neither is Keith’s face. Some of it does get on Steve’s shoe and for that Keith’s worse than little Regan ever could be. If it wasn’t so cold, he’d yank it off and toss it into the fire where it belongs now.

“Nice, Hargrove.” Steve says, grossed out and done, scraping the side of his shoe on the ground, grimacing.

“Right?” Billy’s holding his stomach, he’s laughing so hard. “That was so _pathetic_.”

Keith might have a broken rib from the way he’s _still_ hunched over and Steve would rather not feel bad for the guy but—

Billy points to someone to pour a cup of beer for him. Hands it to Keith and Keith swishes it around in his mouth and spits it back out. Steve has to dodge it, jumps back to avoid it.

Keith _has_ to be doing this on purpose.

Keith’s got a chunk of orange on the corner of his mouth. His breathing’s ragged.

He says, “beer tastes really gross.”

 

—

 

Keith’s already had too much to drink before being turned upside down on the keg, he’s useless on his own two feet.

Billy suggests just dragging him to the camaro by his ankles and Steve tells him that would just take _longer_. Keith’s too big and Steve’s already been too close to his feet once tonight. Keith can stand—sort of. Keith can walk—if Billy and Steve are helping.

Billy takes Keith’s left side. Steve gets his right. They make their way to the camaro, stumbling and nearly falling over every couple of steps, Billy snickering the entire time while Steve tries to walk in a straight line over tree roots and patchy dirt with both Billy and Keith being difficult and impossible and just plain _pains in Steve’s ass._

Steve’s too close to Keith’s face.

He’s misjudged this.

Terribly misjudged the distance between his nose and Keith’s mouth.

_The smell._

Steve hopes, prays, wishes on every shooting star that’s exists in space for Keith to work up another round and ralph all over Billy. To tip over and fall on top of him, flatten him like a pancake. To bore Billy to _actual literal death_ with all his _theories_ on Pac-Man and the ghosts. It would be priceless. Steve would die laughing. It’d be the perfect storybook ending. Print it up, he’s done.

Keith doesn’t do any of it. Which, you know, of course he doesn’t. Steve’s not _Billy_.

Stepping onto the street, the camaro in sight, things look different.

In firelight. In the middle of the woods. In the dark. A night and a long day later. The ground he’s standing on has shifted enough to be new. _Different._

Tommy’s sitting alone on the hood of a red Subaru, flicking his zippo, giving Steve the joo-joo eye. The small flame in his hands lights up his neck. Steve’s the guy who painted blue and purple hurt all over Tommy even if they weren’t his hand. It’s difficult to look. They’re the kind of bruises that hurt from proximity.

Steve’s got gel slicking back his hair and Billy’s gone and fucked off and fucked him up sideways.

Their eyes click, meeting over the hoods of other cars and if things weren’t different Steve would flick Tommy’s nose or Tommy would kick his shin and they’d get over it and themselves and things would be back to normal, the good ole days when Steve didn’t care about much and Tommy kept his secrets to himself.

Tommy’s not going to apologize and Steve’s not about to admit Tommy was spot on.

The fight leaves Steve all at once.

Between them is graveyard dirt. Six feet in the hole is a lifetime worth of friendship shot dead. Steve doesn’t want to fight. He’s tired of it. He’s so fucking exhausted by Tommy’s shit. He doesn’t want to deal. He wants to move on. He has to. Tommy does too.

But Billy’s got his own plans.

He clicks his tongue, revved up, at the ready to pounce on whoever makes the mistake to test him. Keith’s getting heavier. Steve’s quick to grab Billy’s wrist, scrambles to find him across the expanse of Keith’s wide back as Billy pulls away to step into the ring, digs his fingers into that leather jacket to keep him from flying off at Tommy and ending him. There’s a storm brewing on Billy’s face, teeth bared and ready. In the face of a fight, remorse means jack. Steve can practically feel Billy’s pulse racing, his blood soaring, excited and ready to jump into some hurt. His or Tommy’s.

“Don’t bother with him.” Steve says, tugs on Billy’s sleeve. Starts to walk, pulls Billy along with Keith’s deadweight, not even looking in Tommy’s direction anymore. Dismisses him completely. He’s got other things to deal with, Tommy’s not one of them. “Move it, Hargrove. He’s just looking for attention.”

Steve hauls more of Keith’s weight onto Billy to get him back involved in the process of _moving_ and _walking_ and not letting Keith _drop_ since they’ll have to pick him up and Steve’s had enough back problems in his life.

“Fuck you too, Steve.” Tommy spits out, his voice raspy. Steve keeps his hold on Billy and glances back to see Tommy sneering, sliding off the Subaru to stand there and not do a damn thing.

Behind them, cheering erupts. Someone must have gotten Rudolph on top of the tree.

They shove Keith into the back of the camaro. An awkward jumble of too many limbs that aren’t bending the way they should. Keith almost kicks Steve in the head and whines about Billy being _a dishonor to the He-Man name_.

Billy’s pissed. At Steve. Tommy. Spits on the ground. Slams the camaro door closed.

“I don’t like pussying out on a fight.” Billy says, the leather of his gloves squealing from how tight he’s clenching the steering wheel.

Tommy’s neck had looked mangled. _Is_ mangled. The only thing that could’ve been was a deathmatch.

“That’s not a fight if there’s no chance the other guy will win.” Steve says.

Billy kicks the camaro into drive and circles around so he can lower his window to stick his hand outside at sixty and flip Tommy off.

 

—

 

There’s a kind of tension filled silence the radio or a cassette on full blast or Keith rambling in the backseat can’t quite fill and Steve can’t leave alone. There’s no letting it sit and fade into the background. Billy’s simmering. Steve’s been boiling for years.

So Steve tells Billy about junior year. Drinking half his weight in cheap beer and too many shots. Getting egged on by Tommy and Carol and their entire year. Climbing to the very top of the pine tree with Rudolph’s freshly painted golden antlers poking him in the side the whole way up. The branches had marks where decades of other kids had climbed, a path carved into the bark if you looked close enough and paid attention.

A couple seniors had given him that first leg up, told him to not look down and just keep going and if he dropped, well, they knew a shortcut to the hospital. Steve kept his eye on the marks and the next branch he’d have to cling to until he got curious and he’d looked down and saw how far he’d gone because looking up—that’s what made his head dizzy, sped up his heart and pumped him full of vertigo and fear. Seeing how far he had to go left him shaking like a leaf.

He’d almost dropped Rudolph so many times. It was a big and awkward head with sad brown eyes and he’d felt weird touching its fur and knowing it had been alive and breathing and _lived_ and turned into only a head.

The climb took forever and no matter how weird it felt, Steve found himself talking to it. Telling Rudolph to _work with me here_ when Steve would lose his grip, asking it to look up for him and gauge how much further they had to go and get back to him on their progress. The cheers from down below thinned out, got quieter the higher up he was. It was just him and his buddy Rudolph towards the end.

He made it to the top sweating and covered in sap with bark under his nails and cuts on his face, the cold and the climb had sobered him up. The pine tree was thinner at the top and swayed under Steve’s weight.

There at the top Steve could see just a peak of what the forest looked like from above. A huge blanket of shadows that stretched out to the mountains in the horizon. He’d had the wildest thought that if he let go he might be able to fly. He’d chalked it up to the booze.

“It was, you know, _okay_ or whatever. I was so drunk and trying to impress a girl and, well.” Steve says, laughing it off.

Billy’s relaxed, driving with one hand on the steering wheel. He glances at Steve and raps his fingers lightly on the top of the wheel, thinking.

“Maybe I shoulda gone for it then.” Billy says, quietly.

“I think you got the whole school, who’s left?”

Billy doesn’t answer him. Just raises his eyebrow, having a conversation with himself, and sticks to watching the road.

In the backseat, Keith lurches up and grabs at the back of Steve’s seat, at Steve’s shoulder and scares the hell out of him.

“Greatest—the _greatest_ fall in Hawkins. Jock to—to _loner._ ” Keith says, the words tumbling out in a ramble. “What’d—what happened to you? You? _Yo—ou.”_

Keith stretches _you_ out into a long, ear shredding note. Billy reaches his hand back without taking his eyes off the road to shut Keith up, pushing him back in his seat.

Steve’s got a real, honest answer and he can’t say it. Has it locked behind an NDA and the common sense he relies on these days to keep his mouth shut.

 _The world got bigger and I figured out just how small I am,_ Steve thinks.

 

—

 

Keith’s house isn’t _The Palace_ like Steve had always imagined in some ludicrous yet very rational reasoning from his perspective.

 _It’s just a house._ There’s a dried up dead lawn. A cracked driveway. Gold lighting strung along the trim. Inflatable snowmen on the lawn. A wreath on the door. The windows are dark. The driveway’s empty. It’s like every other house in Hawkins. It’s ordinary. Even has a white picket fence that could do with a fresh coat.

Steve’s driven passed this house a million times since he was a kid and never knew who lived here. Hawkins has one surprise up its sleeve after another.

Keith’s sprawled out as much as he can be in the backseat. He’s a lightweight. Barely an hour—if that, according to Billy—of a party and he’s trashed.

He’s got his shoe propped up on the upholstery and Steve really wants to point it out.

“Should we just?” Billy pretends to toss something out the window. _Leave him here? On the lawn?_

“He _is_ heavy.” Steve says. His shoulder is sore from carrying him. The guy doesn’t wear deodorant. There’s no way _that stench_ comes from a guy who does. Steve’s tired of smelling _dude_ too. “No.” Steve shakes his head. “Right? No? That’d be, like, mean and wrong?”

“If you say so.”

“Why am I asking you?”

“I gotta tell ya, no clue.”

 

—

 

Billy and Steve play _rock paper scissors_ to see which of them will fish out Keith’s keys. Billy loses two out of three hands. Relies too much on paper. What Billy does instead is track down the fake rock with the spare key a foot from the door after kicking up the doormat and finding nothing.

Steve’s been in this house hundreds of times without ever stepping foot in it. It doesn’t have the same charm the Henderson’s have, but it’s a home, lived in with family photos on the walls collecting dust and preserving the original paint. Hung up year round. More than what the Harrington house has going for it. Though that’s not much to measure anything by.

Eventually they find Keith’s room—can’t be the one covered in Madonna posters and scrunchies and can’t be the one with the vanity full of makeup and Mother’s Day cards tucked into the mirror’s frame— _has_ to be the one with the entire bookshelf of toys still in their boxes. His room reminds Steve of Dustin’s. Just messier. Nerdier. Clothes thrown all over and overrun with video game posters that cover every inch of the walls, and in the corner, the cherry on top, a pinball console glowing red.

They toss Keith onto the bed. Billy shakes himself like a dog that got sprayed with water. Steve stretches his arms over his head, his left shoulder pops and aches.

“I kissed—“ Keith burps into his sheets, “I kiss. People. Y’know.”

Billy and Steve share a look. Keith sounds annoyed. A thought that’s been in his head too long and now he’s saying it and Steve almost wants to tell him to shut up, that they’re not the ones to spill this kind of thing to.

 _Almost_.

Steve says to Billy, “I kinda wanna know. In like a—a national geographic _chimp with a trombone_ way.”

“I do too, fuck.”

Billy hooks his thumbs in his pockets and kicks at Keith’s leg.

Keith mutters a sluggish _ow_.

“Fess up, big bird. We want names.” Billy says.

Keith groans, flops over onto his back. His chin’s shiny with spit. He’s mumbling. Steve can’t catch what. Neither can Billy by how he’s rolling his eyes. They have to be closer. Billy sets his leg up onto the bed next to Keith’s head to brace himself and leans in.

Steve chooses not to touch any part of the bed.

He’ll carry the guy, but he’s not about to get handsy with his _bedsheets_.

“‘m a gentleman.” Keith says, slurring, whining, flapping his hand up in the air to shoo them away.

“I’ve had to hear about your feelings on Princess Peach, so, no. You’re not.” Steve tells him, shutting that bull down fast. The _rants_ he’s been subjected to as the only guy Keith’s age in an arcade full of Dustins and Wills.

“I want _names_.” Billy snaps his fingers in quick succession right above Keith’s face, making him blink rapidly, eyes darting around the room, just then realizing where he was and who he was with.

“Why’re you guys here?”

“We’re robbing you.” Billy says. “What unlucky cow you been tonguing? Don’t bullshit me or I’ll pop the heads off all your lil toys.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m an impatient asshole, so hurry up.”

“Um. Um?” Keith rubs at his face. “. . . Mary—Mary Leonard? Mary. Yeah, we were in Mrs. Harris’ class. And then. And then Nancy Whu—Wheeler. And then m’dad—at the, uh, Hilton—that was Ms. Lauper, she’s really—“

“Did you just.” Steve has to stop talking to swallow. His stomach churning. “Did you just say _Nancy Wheeler?_ Like, the Nancy I dated? _That_ Nancy Wheeler? Nance?”

“Nancy’s really nice.” Keith says, smiling dopily at some nice memory of _kissing_ Nancy.

“Fuck Wheeler. Who gives a flying shit about _Wheeler_.” Billy says and grabs Keith by the front of his shirt, his boot digging deeper into the mattress, his bicep bulging as he pulls Keith up and shakes him. “ _Ms. Lauper?_ The fuck’s that mean?

Steve backs up, sticks his tongue out of his mouth.

 _Keith_.

God.

That can’t be right.

Keith is just out to get him. Steve’s shoe is proof of that.

“Ms. Lauper?” Keith squints at Billy. He pokes Billy’s forehead and giggles. “Y’know? Cyndi Lauper. Ms. Lauper. She’s, like, super pretty and nice and—and _short._ ”

Billy drops him. Keith bounces on the bed.

Steve’s brain fights with the knowledge that _Keith_ and _Nancy_ once kissed—his entire body and maybe even his _soul_ if that’s what it is, rejects the idea outright. Keith has to be making it up to fuck with him. That’s all.

Steve forces himself to focus on _Cyndi Lauper_. That’s the important bit.

Steve checks with Billy and—yeah—they both heard it.

“No you haven’t.” Steve says to Keith.

Keith’s eyes blink independently of each other. He’s offended. “I have and I—I did.”

“Yeah, you kissed her like you kissed Nancy—you didn’t.”

Keith raises a finger in the air. “We were in the same class—in the fourst— _fourth_ grade with Ms. Cooper and we sat at the same table and—“

Steve not going to listen to that. “But you don’t mean, like, _girls just wanna have fun_ , Cyndi Lauper. You gotta mean some other Cyndi Lauper.”

“The first one. That’s the one I mean.”

Steve’s shaking his head. Billy leans down again and smacks Keith on the cheek twice.

“Cyndi Lauper? The one on MTV?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did you just have a really good dream or something?” Steve says at the same time Billy’s hand gestures start to go wild with, _you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me_.

“I’m not talking about who you jack your pencil dick to, moron.” Billy says. “I’m talking about real live chicks who didn’t run screamin’ from ya.”

“I have pho—pholo— _photographic_ evidence. Yep.” Keith takes a deep rasping breath. He rubs at his stomach. His face crumbles. “You punched too hard.”

“Grow some abs.” Billy snaps. “Well? What the fuck, whip it out.”

Keith gestures around his room and closes his eyes. That’s all they get from him.

Steve’s tentative at first. This is _Keith_. Touching anything in his room seems risky. He can almost stomach touching a dead monster from another dimension. He doesn’t know where the monster’s been, but he damn well knows what a guy gets up to in his own room and Steve’s keeping his hands to himself, thank you very much.

Billy’s got no problem with it. Takes the invitation to let loose and start digging through the junk, flinging whatever he deems as not worth his attention across the room. There’s sounds of tearing. Crunching. _Crashing._ They’re lucky no one else is home.

On the dresser is a stack of framed photographs covered in dust. Steve pokes at them, a safe first option. Picks the top one up and blows the dust off then scrubs the dust off with his sleeve when he sees just _who_ is in the photo with Keith.

Behind him, Billy’s cursing not at all under his breath, digging through Keith’s piles of stuff with more and more aggression that’s being fueled by how batshit the situation is.

There’s never been a rumor or a single whisper of gossip about Keith. He’s so below the radar Steve hadn’t known he’d driven passed Keith’s house thousands of times. That he even had a sister.

Steve picks up another frame and nearly collapses in on himself.

“Why the fuck is there a photo of you and Billy Joel?” Steve waves the frame in the air. Points to the man who’s definitely Billy Joel. “This is—it’s _him_. It’s _actually_ him. What the fuck, Keith?”

Keith just mutters to the ceiling _my dad worked with him—I dunno, I don’t like—I’m more into the Smiths_. Billy doesn’t care about Billy Joel like everyone else on the planet does. Steve’s left to be driven to absolute insanity by himself.

The other frames are worse, more unbelievable than the last. Queen. Kiss. Bob Dylan. _Prince_. All of them standing next to a completely bored Keith.

Steve’s never liked Keith and now—now he hates him.

Who stands next to Prince and looks like they’d rather be anywhere else?

Billy’s gone quiet. He’s holding an electric guitar signed by all the members of Kiss, hugging it close to his chest.

He and Steve huddle together by the dresser, both of them bewildered.

“If I find anything from Hetfield, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.” Billy says, shocked and confused and hopeful that he might actually get to murder Keith.

“I don’t even know who that is and I’ll help.” Steve says. He holds up another framed photograph for Billy. “Look at this.”

Steve’s wiped the dust off of the glass and underneath is a polaroid of a woman who is unmistakably Cyndi Lauper kissing Keith on the cheek.

“Oh, fuck off.” Billy says, pushing the frame away then grabbing it back to examine it. “Did I lose all my goddamn marbles or _what the fuck, Harrington?_ ”

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

“The fuck, right?”

“Yeah. Agreed. _The fuck._ ”

“This town is _wild._ Jeez.” Billy strums the guitar, thinking. “Fucking Keith? Who the hell is this asshole?”

“I think we must have died? Maybe the keg was drugged ‘cause.” Steve trails off, shaking his head. Monsters can be real. Fine. But this? Keith? There are limits to how weird Hawkins is allowed to be. “I don’t know what’s happening. I never do, but, like, especially now.”

Steve stares down at Cyndi Lauper and Keith. Looks at it a little closer. They’re backstage somewhere judging by the curtains and the lighting. Cyndi Lauper’s sweaty, but smiling as she pecks Keith on the cheek. Keith’s straight faced and unbothered, staring blankly at whoever’s taking the picture. Not even the slightest bit of a blush. No sign he’s happy or enjoying any of it.

How shitty does Keith’s dad have to be for Keith to keep quiet about all this?

Steve sets the photographs back onto the stack and it dawns on him then, slowly, horribly, that Keith and Nancy probably _did_ kiss.

 

—

 

Keith hugs Steve goodbye. Wraps his big, lanky arms around him and it’s not exactly a bad hug, but it’s not one Steve really wants to be involved with. He awkwardly pats at Keith’s back and pries himself free.

Billy shoves a pillow over Keith’s face and pushes him flat onto the bed, lets Keith writhe for a second then tosses the pillow onto the floor. Leads Steve out of Keith’s ridiculous, crazy, off the fucking rocks life with a wave over his shoulder. Keith yells, _see ya tomorrow!_ after them, forgetting it’s Saturday and it’ll be two weeks before any kid steps foot inside Hawkins High.

“Does a kiss on the cheek count?” Steve says once they’re outside on the cracked driveway, struggling to absorb what happened.

“She can breathe on him and that counts as popping his cherry.” Billy says. Then mouths _what the fuck_ in the pause to himself. “Man, I’ve never wanted to punch a giant bird more in my entire life.”

 

—

 

The camaro’s made up of nicotine and hairspray, a soft lulling blue and the red cherry end of Billy’s cigarette.

Steve’s lived in Hawkins all his life and at night Hawkins shifts from the familiar to the strange. The Christmas lights and reindeer decorations put up every year by the same people, the same Rudolphs and the same Santas, are passing comforts that disappear behind thickets of trees in the rearview mirror.

Billy drums his fingers to the beat of the music. Drives twenty over the speed limit. Takes each turn too fast. His foot ginger on the brakes and lead on the gas. Enjoying the twists and turns in the road, laughing when Steve has to grab the door to keep from hurtling into him. They’re going nowhere and anywhere. Steve tells Billy to take a left _just because_ and Billy will turn right _just because_.

There’s this quiet between them that settles in the camaro, one of those silences where it feels good to not talk and just let the music play. Lets the vibration of the engine lull his head into thinking it’s okay to watch Billy drive, how his hands hold the wheel, the way his fingers move when he shifts gears—and it could be okay. It is.

Billy’s got his eyes on the road, heavy lidded, slack in his seat, every muscle in him relaxed. In the dark it’s easier to miss all the little moments on Billy’s face, the slight ways he moves his body now that the anger’s gone and there’s no kids and no drunken classmates in the backseat to grate on his nerves. The ones Steve does manage to catch reverberate. Lingering like a hand on Steve’s wrist. He’s not alone. Not out here.

This could be a date. Drive around for hours, aimlessly, listening to some new cassette while his hand creeps up her thigh.

He can’t count how many times he and Tommy did this too.

They leave the safety and Happy Family Christmas lights of the town, going further out into the outskirts, circling the back roads beyond the clean cut streets to the yawning stretches of farmland gone quiet and still in the night, passing the old railroad depot turned Top Secret hideaway for a younger Steve and Tommy, the hook up spot behind the crumbling Zaborowski barn where Steve used to take his dates when his parents were home and the quarry was busy, twisting through the forest, old houses spotted between thickets of bare trees by the camaro’s headlights.

It’s the Upside Down right here in Steve’s backyard. A bike ride away. The same cracked, pothole filled roads he’s known all his life are no different than those tunnels and somewhere, he’s certain, there’s something lurking.

Steve’s hands are clenched up into tight fists on his lap, his leg jumping. Itching with nerves. He scratches at his jeans. His bat’s back home. They’re only as safe as far as the camaro’s doors.

 

—

 

The camaro slows to a stop.

“Hell.” Billy says, leaning over the steering wheel to get a better look, eager for an adventure. “That is some spooky Scooby Doo shit right there.”

Sitting in front of them, looming above the chainlink construction fence wrapped in green tarp, is the massive structure of the mall towering in the sky, sucking in the night around it. A skittering of anxiety, of danger, of monsters with so many teeth yanks the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck. He doesn’t go in the woods at night. That’s an obvious thing to do. You don’t have to be in the _know_ to know that. You don’t have to have a nail bat to know that. Common sense is plenty.

Steve thinks they’ll be okay.

_What does he know._

He just crosses his fingers and is dumb enough to hope.

 

—

 

There’s a limit to how many times Steve can say _this is a bad idea_ and not feel like a complete square. He slams into that limit and passes it fast from trying to warn Billy off from inside the camaro to following Billy right up to the fence with a list of objections that are too vague to be persuasive.

Billy’s not hesitating or listening to a word Steve says. It turns out it’s impossible to convince someone when he can’t tell the truth. Billy didn’t believe him the first time, why would he now?

Every few feet a sign says, _KEEP OUT_. Steve agrees wholeheartedly.

They shouldn’t be doing this. It’s illegal. It’s dangerous. It’s too quiet out here and there’s something not quite right with _this_ unsettling, off kind of quiet. What they’re doing can turn bad in a split second. Billy’s being dumb. Steve’s being dumber by going along with him.

“I used to do this all the time back home. It’s gonna be fine.” Billy tries to reassure Steve. Hands him a flashlight from the camaro’s trunk that’s no bat or shotgun. Sticks his other flashlight under his arm and holds out his hands to give Steve a boost over the fence. _Finally some fun._

Steve flips the flashlight in his hands a few times, feeling all too sober now, glances at the fence, at the soon-to-be mall behind it then back to Billy and his folded hands. Billy’s had a whole other life in California. One that involved exploring construction sites at night without a second or even a first thought.

Steve’s looking lame and feeling like it too. He’s got no reputation to speak of. He doesn’t care. He hasn’t for months. But he wants to be cool, here, now, with Billy looking at him expecting and hoping for Steve to _not_ be the boring guy he is. To play the new game. The cool one.

Billy’s going to do whatever he wants when he’s like this, doesn’t matter if Steve has a bad feeling in his gut telling him to turn around and hightail it back to town. This is Billy’s game and it’s Steve’s choice to join in or wait by the camaro while Billy gets gnawed on by whatever’s prowling Hawkins these days.

Billy shakes his hands, urging him to hurry up.

“Harrington, it’s a bunch of metal and cement on some dirt. It’s not gonna bite ya.”

“I’m not talking about the mall, who gives a shit about the _mall_ —I’m talking about—about _stuff._ ”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah.” It’s annoying to not be able to tell him what’s _really_ up, to have Billy give him this silent, obvious look calling Steve a bullshitter. Steve’s word isn’t good enough. He’s got no proof. He’s no liar though. “Bad. Creepy. Really just _bad_ stuff, Hargrove.”

“I think I got it the first time.”

“Clearly you didn’t.”

“I definitely did.”

“Fine. Then I don’t think you believe me. Actually, I know you don’t. You’re giving me that face.”

“Can’t give ya any other one. ‘fraid my mug’s just naturally angelic.”

Steve closes his eyes. Attempts to count to ten and only makes it to three and half of _Mississippi_. “You know what I mean. You’re not _listening_.”

“I am. I just happen to think you’re full of it. Or got something up your ass about trespassing laws.”

“It’s not about the trespassing, it’s about,” Steve struggles, runs through a few valid and real reasons that all make him sound out of this world wacko, “it’s about _the stuff_.”

“You keep saying _stuff_ like that means shit. It _doesn’t_. It means _nothing_ to me.”

“It means _bad things happen in creepy ass places_ , is that better?”

Billy stares flatly at Steve. He cracks his knuckles. Moves his flashlight to under his other arm. Holds his hands back out.

“If you’re scared of the dark, just say it. I won’t make fun you, balloon boy.” Billy tilts his head, lips pursed in one of those sweet _you heard me_ smiles, knowing exactly how to charm anyone and irritate them at the same time for any and all occasions. “I’ll protect you, King Stevious. I’ll be your fuckin’ knight in shining armor. White horse and everything.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Double dog dare ya?”

“Hargrove.” Steve says seriously, clambering for that far off and impossible loophole where he won’t be breaching his NDA and making Billy think he’s nuts in a non-fun-exciting way. “This isn’t buying a coke or snorting jello in the cafeteria. This is Hawkins. _At night._ ”

Billy rights himself, considering Steve. Hard to think Billy’s only an inch shorter the way he makes Steve feel like he’s looking up when he’s eye to eye with him. He pries Steve open to see what it is that’s got him riled up like this. It would be so much simpler if that’s how this worked. Billy would just know and believe Steve without Steve having to explain himself and then convince Billy he’s not loony.

Hell, Steve thought he was crazy when he found out and he had the real live thing in front of him.

“You’re scared.”

“I’m,” Steve can’t exactly deny it, “I’m being _cautious._ Is that a bad thing?”

Billy steps up to him, the same way he would if he was trying to pick a fight. Get in Steve’s face, intimidate and strong-arm him and then laugh when the blood starts pouring, make Steve focus on him and only him, but Billy’s not throwing any punches, has no intention to—he’s trying to be understanding.

“Harrington, I’m not Tommy. I ain’t your prissy princess. And I’m not your fuckin’ little fanclub. Fuck all of’m, you’re with me.” Billy presses the head of his flashlight to the middle of Steve’s chest. “I got you, okay?”

The pointed pressure of Billy’s flashlight, his steady gaze in the dark, fearless where Steve isn’t, wild where Steve wishes he could be too, rattles him.

No backing down now.

 

—

 

The fence has to be over ten feet tall. Billy gives Steve a boost, sends him nearly up to the top. Steve treads carefully, out of practice, the thin wire of the fence cutting into his fingers, struggling to find his next foothold while Billy flies up and over and waits for Steve once he makes it to the other side, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Steve lands with a soft _oof_ next to him, stumbling slightly. Untucks the flashlight from the back of his jeans and turns it on. Billy does the same. He lets out a low whistle.

Behind the wired fence, the green plastic tarp overlay, and the company posters is the grand expanse of the construction site. Intimidating in a striking similarity to tunnels leading miles in every direction. Steve can only see the ground as far as the reach of the flashlights and up and up, in the distance, against the bright night sky, across an empty eerie stretch of torn up land is the towering, looming mass of what will be the mall.

The site sits in the darkness, a strange shadow emerging from the rubble and concrete and dirt, swallowing the moonlight. Undefinable and more than just _spooky_.

A chill embraces Steve’s body and holds him in a tightly clenched fist. Unrelenting. His breath cut short, trimmed into small and hollow puffs.

Billy’s a few feet in front of him, shining his flashlight ahead, oblivious, in the moment, unworried. He’s done this before. This is nothing new. Surely, one construction site is the same as any other. He’d have no reason to be cautious. Just metal and cement. It won’t bite.

Steve quickens his steps to catch up. The frozen dirt cracks under their feet as they walk, echoes only for a moment before the sound is sucked into the shadow of the massive mall.

The air’s colder, seeps through Steve’s jacket to cling to his skin, get his teeth chattering. Smells different. Stinks like the another world. Like the demodog Steve pulled out of the Byers’ freezer and had thawed in his trunk. He imagines the worst case scenario and what they can do with just the two of them.

He can hear Billy breathing.

The click of his boots.

His leather gloves creaking as he shifts his grip on the flashlight.

Steve holds his breath.

It’s so quiet.

They pass by bulldozers and cranes—their keys locked up somewhere else—and stacks of pipes wider than Steve is tall. He shines his light through one and can’t see the end. Billy puts two fingers to his lips and whistles into it, listens to the echo and grins at Steve, living for this unsettling place. The adrenaline rush means _bad things are about to happen_ for Steve, but for Billy—he gets a kick out of the high, the surge of his blood, the hammer of his heart pounding in his chest. This is fun for him. What he did in California. He’s the exciting new kid from the west coast and he does this kind of shit on a Tuesday night. Steve’s the square yokel thinking too much.

They wander through the metal beam skeleton of the mall. Steve’s flashlight flickers. He bangs the butt of it. Billy trades him, gives him his. Once it’s in Steve’s hands it begins to flicker too. Steve starts to sweat.

There aren’t any dogs. No guards. The _KEEP OUT_ signs on the gate had apparently been it for security. It’s deserted. Steve and Billy are the only two people for what feels like miles.

Steve lifts the corner of plastic tarps to see what’s underneath and finds only painfully normal things. Coils of wires. Electric tools with their cords wound up and tied for the night. Future material to be loaded up onto the scaffolds.

Steve tried to stay in the moment, the fun of exploring a mysterious place they’re not allowed to be in, attempts to not wander off to scarier thoughts of how alien normal things can look at night. If only there were dogs to scare them away. The flashlight’s slippery in his grip so he wipes his hands on his jeans.

Steve’s light trails over large plastic wrapped letters and then a star. Billy whips the tarp up and off, tossing it to the side to shine his light on the future Starcourt sign still wrapped in plastic.

Billy picks up the letter ’S’, as tall as he is, to weigh it in his hands with his flashlight pinched under his arm. Billy says, too gleeful, _we gotta steal this shit._

Steve pushes at the star with his index finger and it tips over onto another pointed end. Made of aluminum, it’s easy to move. Next to the sign are boxes of lightbulbs. Billy talks about tying a couple letters to the camaro’s roof. It’d be real easy, Steve thinks with no idea what they’d do with anything here. Sell it, probably. To who, Steve’s got no idea. Billy’s talking out of his ass.

There’s a soft _t h u d_ behind him.

A prickle lights up the back of Steve’s neck, the back of his ears, heat flushes through him, tightens him, coils him up, ready to swing, he goes stiff when he should be loose.

Billy says something.

Steve doesn’t hear what.

He spins around, his shoes scraping on the dirt. Blood pounds through his ears. Grips the flashlight so hard he’s shaking. _I’ll have to take it out before it gets to Billy_. Shines his light on—

Nothing.

Just.

Dirt and rocks and cigarette stubs and broken up bits of cement and lights with no lightbulbs and so much darkness all around him.

Sweat beads at Steve’s temple, drips down his neck. Hair sticks to the back of his neck. He’s cold and sweltering. His flashlight’s heavy. Metal. It’s not a bat with a bunch of nails hammered into it, though, _is it?_ He should’ve brought it. He’s gotten complacent. Too fucking relaxed with the status quo. He knows better than this. What was the point of all those nights prowling if this is where he ends up?

The quiet presses in, the darkness outside of the single beam of light pushes and pushes around him, the world growing smaller, squeezing him into the mall’s encroaching shadow, swallowing him whole.

Steve’s eyes don’t leave where he heard that thud. He concentrates on it. Stares into the dark. Waiting for any sign he hadn’t made it up, to hear it one more time and then he’ll—they’ll—

There’s nothing.

Steve whispers, “Hargrove?”

Billy’s gone quiet too.

Steve turns his head, just to glance behind him, to make sure—

 _Billy’s gone_.

Just.

Gone.

Steve turns in every direction. Sweeping his flashlight in a circle and finding only silence, dirt, stubs, metal, cement, lightless lights, machines unplugged and quiet and not one sign of Billy.

He’s vanished. Disappeared. He was there and now he’s not.

“I swear,” Steve says to the shadows, forcing himself to laugh, “if this is you playing a joke, I’m gonna go on a spree.”

Steve’s laugh trails off into an echo and fades.

Billy’s not from Hawkins.

He doesn’t know one weird from another. Has no idea about the lamps crowding Steve’s room. No clue about the things that crawl out at night when Hawkins gets bored.

He won’t know what to do.

He shouldn’t know what to do.

He won’t be prepared.

He’ll be scared.

Billy’s got Steve, but Steve doesn’t have him.

It’s Steve’s fault.

“Billy?” Steve calls out.

He grips the flashlight with both hands, beginning to shake. Breath hurtling out of him, full of panic, guilt bubbling up the back of his throat like bile, adrenaline coursing through him, making him alert to every speck of dust, every harried heartbeat, every drop of sweat that slides down his skin and he thinks of the power tools, the sledgehammers, he’s quick on his feet, he’s got this, he turns the panic into something he can use, he’s done this before and he knows he can do it now, and he says it again in his head more forcefully, more determined, _I got this_.

He moves his foot over crackling dirt and gravel. One step forward. Waits for any sign where Billy might be, where whatever has taken him is lurking. Calls out Billy’s name louder. Voice tinny in his own ears. The name _Billy Hargrove_ echoes, climbs up the rafters high above him and disappears outside of his light.

Steve steadies his hold, white knuckling the flashlight until he imagines the batteries inside might burst and spill acid onto his palms.

Behind him.

A click.

It grabs his shoulder.

“ _Boo_.”

Steve spins around, fisting his flashlight like a roll of quarters he pulls back his arm in a rush of adrenaline and lands his hit on—Billy’s ear.

“Fuck me sweet Mary and fuckin’ _jesus christ._ ” Billy bites out, bounces back, hunched over, clutching at the side of his head, wincing in pain.

Billy’s in one piece. Curls all accounted for. Not bleeding anymore than he was beforehand.

Steve pants, shaking, frozen to the spot watching Billy curse. His hand loosens around the flashlight and it drops onto the ground. In a rush, the cold comes back, floods him with ice and the realization there isn’t a monster.

There never was one.

Steve’s pulse slows to a harsh unsteady beat, jolting and thunderous, shocked out of his fright by Billy standing in front of him, alive and _fine_ , rubbing at his ear.

“Goddamn, Harrington. Use some brass knuckles next time.” Billy shakes his head and starts to laugh softly and then loudly. He laughs with his entire body. He wipes at his nose, grinning happily at Steve that this was all in good fun. Just a joke. Steve should be laughing too. In the indirect light Billy’s _pleased with himself_ grin is out of place or maybe Steve’s just seeing through the wrong pair of eyes.

Billy tilts his head, his lips, his shoulders follow, the earth leans with him. “What’s the matter? Still spooked after that?”

He spreads his arms out wide and looks upwards into the mall’s metal insides and howls. Roars. Shouts out, “COME AND GET ME YA BASTARDS!”

The echoes of his outburst last for minutes, escaping up into the night sky. Steve’s ears ring not from Billy, but from the deafening silence afterwards. The cocksure way Billy looks at him, proving himself right. Nothing to worry about here. It’s all good. No answering howls or skittering feet. No monsters under this bed. Just power-tools and a couple of lightbulbs.

Steve’s shoulders slump. The fight leaves him, pops him, deflates him and he’s left to stand on the cold dirt in muddy shoes. Reality snaps the taut anxiety that’s stretched so thinly inside him to show the ugly truth of just what’s underneath all that panic and fear and fight—disappointment.

It’s knowing that does it. Realizing he’s wrong. All those times he thought something was watching him, that gut feeling he’d counted on _so many times_ —he was wrong.

And Steve’s not new to being wrong. It’s a well worn pair of shoes. Failed tests. Failed relationships. He was wrong about Nancy. He was wrong about Tommy. He was even wrong about Billy.

But with this—with fighting monsters—

Steve’s good at that. It was terrifying and he doesn’t go a day without thinking about the Upside Down, but _he was good at it_. He saved Nancy. He saved Jonathan. The kids. He could have saved Billy too. He could’ve had proof. He wouldn’t be lying anymore. He could show just what he’s capable of if— _if_.

It’s all in his head. He’s living in the past, too stuck on monsters that aren’t here anymore and Steve’s back to being useless. Just thinking it, turning _it_ into actual words that make too much sense in his fucked up head churns Steve’s stomach.

 

—

 

Steve can hear Billy behind him, following him, so he walks faster, tries to put more space between Billy and him and his nowhere near heroic epiphany about himself. He’s running away. His tail is firmly lodged between his legs. It’s fight or flight and Steve’s going to flap his wings home.

But Billy catches up to him—of course he does, he’s the top player on the team—and he grabs Steve’s arm, skids them both to a stop.

Steve’s not surprised. Defeated, sure. Not exactly shocked. Billy’s not the type to let shit go. Not when Steve would really like him to.

Shoulders up to his ears, a cruddy, dirty, horrible feeling tunneling itself deep into his skull makes it difficult to look Billy in the eye when Billy manually turns Steve to look at him. The shame’s already too much in the dark, but it would be blaring in the daytime. Billy would know. It’d be impossible for him not to. Billy’s no a damsel. Steve’s just a good for nothing nobody. It’s all rotten. Steve can smell the stink coming off of him like bad BO. How Billy can stand him is a mystery.

“If you’re pissed, just spit it out and we can settle that shit, man to man.” Billy holds up a fist. His ring glints from one of the flashlights in his other hand, the light pointed down at the ground.

Steve’s had that ring embedded in his skin. It’s left a scar on his cheek, a tiny one he has to look for to see.

He blanches.

“I’m not _pissed_.” Steve spits the word out and that just sets Billy off.

“Screw you, you are.”

“Don’t tell me what I am. That’s so—so _obnoxious_.”

“Quit the pansy bullshit and punch me in the face, Harrington. You get one freebie. C’mon.” Billy crooks his four fingers, gestures _come at me_ and it would be the shitty icing on the cake for the entire evening. Socking Billy in the jaw. Really, such a great way to end the night. Exactly how Steve thought it’d go. That’s why he bought a bunch of magazines of men _punching_ each other and hid them under his bed.

Steve backs up, glances furtively at the fence in the distance. “You’re either drunk or you really do have actual brain damage. Like, you need to go to the doctors and get one of those big scan things.”

“ _And bitchy_. Two for two, huh? Rounding out all the bases?” Billy grabs Steve’s arm, forces himself into Steve’s space—that’s just what he does and he’ll keep doing it because Steve _lets him—but this time Steve rips himself away and pulls back, breathing heavy, hot under his coat, not wanting Billy that close to him._

Billy’s hand lingers in the air between them, falls to his side in a curled fist. He’s gonna bite, take a chunk out of Steve and be able to taste how damn rotten he is from the inside.

“We’re in an empty ass _nothing_.” Billy says and he comes bulldozing his way back into Steve’s space whether Steve wants him to or not. Billy’s dogged in getting his point across. “Worst thing we run into is some fat-ass security guard or a fuckin’ dog and all you gotta do with a dog is run or stick a leg out and punch it till it stops moving— _so._ ”

_So._

Steve stares in disbelief. “Are you telling me—did you fight a _dog?_ ”

“ _No._ ”

“You shouldn’t be friends with a guy who fights a fucking _dog_.”

“It was some fuckin’ guy I ran with back home. He knocked out a Rottweiler ‘cause it wanted to eat him and his crew and— _fuck you_ , okay? That shit’s sick. More bitchin’ than your ass’ll ever be.”

“Yeah, because I really wanna be _that_ cool.”

Billy snorts. Pats at his chest, searching for a cigarette and snarling when he doesn’t find one. He throws up his hands. Crosses his arms to glare at Steve like Steve’s the one who smoked him clean out of his stock when he’s inhaling a pack every five minutes. Steve glares right back, on the defense, torn between wanting Billy to rip right through him, deserving it, and instinctively wanting to push back.

“There’s no fucking monster, no boogieman crawlin’ up anyone’s pantyhose. I was. You know. I was— _fuck_.“ Billy scrubs at his mouth, his face and his body contort, twisting together—pissed off at Steve and damn close to being apologetic. “Look, I get it. I fucked up, so will you just—”

Billy turns his head to pat at the corner of his jaw and juts out his chin. Eyebrows pinching together. Expecting. Waiting for a hit that Steve’s got no intention or interest in throwing.

Steve rubs at his temples with his knuckles and then all the way across his eyebrows, chasing after the pressure. Combs his hair back. Grabs a fistful and tugs. The gel in his hair cracks and crinkles in a pleasant way.

He walks three paces to the right and then back, treading over the guilt, circling around the shame, being hounded by irritation. It’s all a little much. Nothing he signed up for or wanted.

He crouches and this close to the ground gravity takes over and seconds later he’s flat on his back with bits of broken up stone and cement poking at him through his frumpy winter coat and jeans, the cold hard ground a constant on his backside as he stares up into the vast underbelly of the mall’s skeleton, through the criss-crossing metal beams catching snippets of the night sky.

Steve inhales deeply through his mouth and exhales through his nose. He does it over and over again while thinking _I’m horrible_ and _I’m an idiot_ and _so is Billy._

 

—

 

Billy sits down next to Steve, up by his shoulder, grunting when his ass touches the cold earth, cursing under his breath at Indiana and winter. Billy shines his flashlight on the ground next to him, searching for a cigarette stub that’s been tossed early. He flicks the too short ones away and when he finds one he likes with some length to it he lights it up and passes it to Steve.

“I thought you’d laugh.” Billy admits with his hands limp between his knees. The same pained tone as the junkyard. An apology.

Steve doesn’t need one. Or want one.

“Maybe learn a knock-knock joke.”

The cigarette’s used up after a few passes. Billy flicks it off into the dark and starts sifting around for another one.

“Knock-knock.” Billy says.

“Do you really just have one at the hip?”

“Step off, you’re the one askin’ for it, so, fuckin’ knock-knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Snicker.”

“Snicker who?”

“Snickerdoodle-do.”

“Oh no, god, that’s awful. Scare the shit outta me again, I’ll laugh this time, I swear.” Steve groans. Billy shoves his middle finger in Steve’s face and Steve bats his hand away, laughing stupidly. Billy flicks another stub that’s too short. They’re sitting in a giant ashtray and Steve should feel more grossed out by that.

“I’m glad you’re not, like, dead or anything.” Steve says, softly. Billy ducks his head, chews at his thumbnail and sits still where even the slight breeze can’t move him for a long, silent moment.

“You really believe in monsters? Like, real ones? Scales and big teeth? Godzilla type shit?”

Steve should say _no_. He could. Dustin would tell him to. The U.S. government would remind him of his _contractual obligations to this country._ They’re both sober. Billy’s going to remember this.

“You won’t believe me. So.”

“ _So._ ” Billy snorts. “That’s it, huh?”

“What else am I supposed to say?”

“Fuck if I know.” Billy scoots down and flops onto the ground to lie next to Steve.

 

—

 

There’s this strange vulnerability to lying belly up in the middle of a place that had terrified him. Overwhelming having these heavy, wild shadows above him holding still and calm and knowing, now, that nothing’s here. Just him and Billy. Just metal and cement. Steve could float out of his skin, away from everything that’s building up too quick for him to try to catch up and never come back down. He’d be lost out there. More lost than he is stuck in clothes that are too tight, in a body that’s too awkward that feels too much—too much of everything.

Steve soaks up the quiet and the cold, getting lost in the hugeness of the structure above him when Billy flicks his ear. The sharp temporary sting of Billy’s nail hitting his earlobe brings Steve back to his body and where he is and he’s itching and frantic, overrun with the need to do _something_.

Steve swings his arm up, holding it out straight above him and points to the cavernous innards of the beginnings of the mall, heart pounding at the thought that overcomes him.

Billy follows to where he’s pointing and Steve thinks he gets it now. The whole reason Billy wanted to climb the fence in the first place was because he needs to move too. Steve just had to catch up to understand.

“Let’s go up there.” Steve says, breathless, grinning madly and hopefully, half out of his mind and excited when Billy looks at him, surprised, but he doesn’t argue and Steve doesn’t overthink it.

Billy’s on his feet, dust kicked up in his rush and then he’s pulling Steve up by his outstretched arm before Steve can start to think this is a bad idea, one of his worst ones yet. It’s an adventure. Just like when he was little and Hawkins wasn’t so scary and every street, all of the forest, the whole world in this small town could be his playground. This is his chance. His real chance. He’s no boring Indiana boy. He can prove himself without having to fight. He’s going to climb this beast and claim it as his with Billy right by his side.

There’s no talking or planning it out or finding a ladder or letting his insecurities get to him. Steve spots a reachable beam to start with and gives Billy a boost up to the next floor and Billy reaches down to pull Steve up.

And they climb.

 

—

 

The higher they go, the windier it is, the harder it is to keep their footing on the scaffolding that sways an awful lot like the top of an evergreen tree and the bare metal beams feel like they’re made of ice, slippery and more difficult to find a balance on without a railing, but Steve and Billy figure it out, catch each other, reeling the other back in from falling, they find their footing eventually while weaving and dodging cobwebs made of thick electrical cords.

Billy’s steadier on his feet, he’s done this a million and one times. He’s no damsel for Steve to save. He leads Steve on the jumps, the narrow paths up, catches him by his arm, the back of his coat, his waist. Reels Steve in steadily and sure. Steve can look up and see how much further they have to go without getting dizzy or that pit of nerves wriggling around in his gut because he has Billy and Billy’s got this, he’s got Steve. Rudolph can retire on someone’s mantle.

They make it as high as they can go and Steve follows Billy, slowly and as carefully and sure footed as ever when Billy walks out onto the large metal beam to the very end and sits, his feet swinging freely hundreds and thousands of miles above the ground and Billy glows, shining under moonlight with dimples and bright white teeth and ruddy cheeks and the happiest smile Steve’s ever seen on him that Steve returns, genuinely, fully, he can’t seem to stop. It’s cold, but Steve doesn’t _feel_ cold. Billy’s alive in a way Steve didn’t know he wasn’t anymore. He feels _warm_. He might fall asleep tonight grinning. He can’t imagine sleeping at all after this. He’ll be up for weeks and months thinking about this.

They sit side by side, sweating, steam coming off of them, the wind rushing in their ears, through their hair, looking out onto the blanket of the forest, the sparkling night sky, the full moon, the horizon that goes on and on and on. It’s nothing like being on top of the evergreen. It’s bigger. There’s more, so much more Steve’s heart bursts with it.

 

—

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever hated a town more than Hawkins.” Billy says, his hands splayed flat on the smooth metal surface beside him. His left close to Steve’s right, just an inch away. Close close close. “Even the name is dumb. Who wants to hear they’re moving to _Indiana?_ ”

Billy’s head is tilted up, gaze fixed on the sky as though this is the first time he’s ever looked up, really _looked_ at what being this far from the west coast and bright city lights has to offer, his darkened blue eyes reflecting starlight.

“Fuck man. We didn’t have stars like this in California. Hell, nothing like this.” Billy says it so softly Steve nearly doesn’t catch a word before the wind sweeps them away.

Steve told Dustin to _go for it_. The kid’s got he guts to actually do it.

Billy’s hand is right next to him. Right there. Steve’s fingers twitch and Billy’s admiring the night sky and Steve wants to touch him, any part of him, every part of him. Steve reaches out. Touches the back of Billy’s hand, the shredded knuckles of his worn leather glove, his fingers.

He can’t feel whether Billy’s cold or warm.

Steve’s fingers have gone numb.

Billy doesn’t notice, his hand unmoving under Steve’s. Not a twitch. From his hand or his face.

Steve pulls back. Warms his hands under his arms. Licks his chapped lips. Focuses on the stars he doesn’t know the names to, the horizon where the forest and the sky disappear into each other. Feels another fresh tug of disappointment and does his best to let it go. He admires the stars.

For a moment, Steve settles. In his skin. In his place in Hawkins. In the roles he’s meant to fill. The need to prove himself runs off. All the way up here, above the world and all those ugly truths, with Billy beside him, Steve finally sheds that itching anxiety he’s grown so used to and finds peace.

He holds his arms above his head, fingers spread wide and welcoming and when Billy grabs his shoulder, laughing and telling Steve _you’re fuckin’ wild, man, fuckin’ wild_ —

it feels a lot like flying.

 

—

 

They’re on a narrow ledge leading to a scaffold that shook under their weight on the climb up. Only two levels above the ground and they’re home free to walk back to the camaro and move along with the night. The climb down should be easier, it’s running downhill, a quick backtrack through familiar terrain and all that jazz. But Steve’s knees are shaky. The rush of climbing so high is starting to fade and now he’s gotta go _back down_ and the prospect turns his joints to jelly, his fingers are frozen, gone clumsy on him, he can’t grip as well as he should. It’s harder than it should be and Billy’s got his own frozen limbs to deal with.

Steve’s too comfortable. That’s what Billy’s capable of too. He can incinerate Steve’s anxiety, burn it to ash with that fire inside him.

It’s inevitable.

Steve slips.

He lands on his ankle. _POP_. That’s the sound it makes. That’s how it feels too. His ankle _POPS_ and it _hurts_ —a sharp new and wonderful and _particular_ pain shoots up his leg straight to his brain and spreads. _You don’t land on your feet_ , that’s another adage common sense would tell him, but he still goes ahead and does it since his head’s all over the place anyways.

Steve hits the cement. _POP_ goes his right ankle. _BANG_ goes his knee after.

Billy tries to catch him, but when your muscles are frozen, reaction time is a hell of a lot slower and that’s why Steve slips and why Billy’s trespassing experience means shit. He shouts after Steve, says his name, _STEVE_. Not _Harrington_ or _dumbass_ or _fuckwad_ —just _STEVE_ and it’s just _messed up_ how Steve doesn’t get a chance to feel much of anything about that change because he’s falling and then he’s a pancake on cement with a leg that’s gone to hell and ain’t coming home.

Steve groans into the ground. He’s got dust _or whatever_ in his mouth and up his nose and all over him and his _leg_ —it’s a lot of pain all at once, not the worst, getting his face bashed in twice was worse, but it’s _a lot_ and he lies on his side, curled up, holding his knee to his chest with his eyes squeezed shut, grimacing.

If he looks—he can’t look. He can’t. At his knee. At his ankle. He just. _He can’t._ If he keeps his eyes closed, he won’t know and he can put off _knowing_ what exactly happened, if it’s worse than rolling it or—Steve doesn’t want to know. Denial’s where he lives and he’s happy to spend his golden years there.

Billy clambers down from the upper level, lands with a grunt and then he’s running over to Steve, repeating _motherfucker_ over and over—isn’t as creative with his insults as he should be and that could be because he’s flying off the cuff rattled.

 _He could do better_ , is all Steve’s thinking. That and _ow_.

Billy skids to a stop, drops to his knees next to him. Steve cracks open one eye and then two and there’s Billy hovering over him, flashlight shining on the ground next to them, Billy wide-eyed with his hands in the air unsure of what to do and as close to _freaked_ as Steve’s seen him since the Mickey Mouse cap landed on his head.

Billy doesn’t know what to do. That makes two of them.

“This your idea of payback?” Billy sounds mad. Steve almost— _almost_ —says _sorry_.

“Yep.” Steve grunts out, gritting his teeth and trying to smile, to get convey _this isn’t that big of a deal_. “Did I get ya good or what?”

 _Moron_ , Billy says more to himself and Steve tries not to take it personally. Laughs lightly and it comes out _very_ pathetically and halfway a groan. He’s not sounding all that great to his own ears.

Billy rakes his hand through his hair, thin lipped.

“What hurts?”

Steve tries to shrug and that jolts some other pain in his body.

“Everything?” Steve says and winces.

Billy says _jesus_ and then he’s touching Steve, leaning over him to run his fingers along the back of Steve’s head, through his hair and it’s a _shock_ and it feels _so unbelievably nice_. Steve leans into it, this nice comforting touch until he realizes _why_ Billy’s touching him like this—he’s poking around to see if Steve was dumb enough to bash his own head in.

Billy’s hands dip under Steve’s collar to touch his neck and Steve gasps at Billy’s cold fingers against his sheltered warm skin, forgetting for the shortest moment about his knee and his ankle and only feeling Billy’s icy caress.

Billy moves on, avoids lingering on any one spot to check his shoulders and his arms, all the way to his wrists and hands—it’s a lot of touching, a lot of Billy’s California warmth hitting him through his frumpy winter coat and Billy watching his face carefully after each squeeze-poke-jab _because Steve’s a liar_ and Steve isn’t used to being on the other side of this. Thrown off by having someone else so singularly care. Billy’s checking all of him and he wishes his leg wasn’t throbbing so he could enjoy even a second of it.

Billy turns Steve onto his back and frowns when he sees the other side of Steve’s face and only when he brushes his thumb along Steve’s cheek does Steve realize he’s hurt there too. Scraped his cheek down to his chin. Billy’s thumb comes away with blood.

Not great. It figures.

Then Billy gets to his legs.

Steve pulls away reflexively. Uses his good leg to scoot himself back. Puts as much distance as he can between Billy and the mystery problem of his ankle that he still _can’t_ look at and _won’t_ look at until it’s healed.

He’s fine. If he thinks it enough, if he says it enough, it’ll just be _true_.

That’s definitely how this works.

“I’m fine.” Steve tells Billy and then he says it again, three times, five times, while he clutches at his knee and keeps his foot in the air and off the ground. He’s banged up. A little dazed. There’ll be a couple bruises tomorrow. Nothing so bad he has to hang in the towel. _He’s fine._ Dandy. Swell. Mucho Bien and all that.

His Spanish has never been all that good.

So much for flying.

Billy grabs Steve by his shoulders. He’s quiet. There’s been a hush ever since he started prodding at Steve’s limbs and it’s _annoying_ , stupid, he’s being dumb and nice and _caring_ and Steve’s in this weird, unstable place where he can’t even make a _guess_ as to what Billy’s thinking and it’s all so uncomfortable.

Billy’s keeping hold of him, a firm and close grip, and Steve’s not going to be able to outrun what might be actual worry knotting Billy’s eyebrows together and twisting his mouth into that uneasy shape like he has something to say but he won’t say it. He keeps Steve upright to look unconvinced and make sure Steve knows he’s not buying any of the shit he’s spouting.

Steve tries harder. Puts more oomph in his Dustin defined catch phrase.

“ _I’m fine_. Seriously. It was just a—a—slight tiny trip. I just gotta walk it off.”

“Then let go of your leg, hot shot.”

“I don’t need to because I’m fine, thanks anyways. You wanna go get a burger?”

Billy chews the inside of his cheek. Steve can see a vein twitch in his forehead telling him he’s hit the end of the line of Billy’s patience.

Billy lets him go, leans back, hands curled up into fists on his lap.

“Get up and walk.”

Steve stares at him.

Dusts floats around them looking like flakes of snow in the flashlight’s beam. He waits a beat to consider his options and knows he only has the one.

“Okay.” Steve says.

Billy’s faces _pinches_. “Then do it.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“It sure is.”

“Thought you were tired of pretending?” Billy says from his glass house.

That’s rich. That’s _real_ rich. He’s got a boulder in his pocket with both their names on it.

The switch has been flicked. Billy’s annoyed and Steve’s not far behind. Being in pain makes everything else _worse_ and despite _everything_ he still has this hard on to prove himself, that he’s not a completely useless human being, he’s got something going for him and if it’s his ability to move two legs then _fuck it_ , he will.

“I’m not _pretending_.” Steve says, grunts, and really does _try_ to get up and that lasts for all of one whole second before he’s letting go of his knee, noticing a new and not-good wobble to it that gives him the impression it’ll be sticking around for the next ten years. He doesn’t think it’s broken, it’s gone cockeyed.

His ankle though. He thinks back to the _POP_.

Steve takes a deep, steadying breath, fully preparing to heave himself up and give Billy the bird—because fuck Billy and fuck malls and fuck Steve’s body for landing on the most inconvenient part of it and fuck Miriam Castellano too, _why not_ —gingerly places his foot on the ground, just the toe of his shoe makes contact, a soft brush with the earth, and that’s plenty, more than enough for Steve to hiss and pull back. Has to bite his cheek to keep from crying out from the pain.

He glances at Billy, peeved at his body for not backing him up.

“Real impressive.” Billy says.

“Just let me die.”

“Nah.” Billy shakes his head, starts unwinding his scarf from his neck.

Billy holds Steve’s chin between his fingers to angle Steve’s face the way he wants and wipe the dust off of him. Blood gets on the wool and Billy says nothing about it. Steve face starts to burn and he’s so happy it’s _dark_.

Billy gently eases up Steve’s leg, his hand on the back of his calf and uses his scarf to wrap Steve’s ankle. Carefully jostles Steve as little as possible and ties it tight enough to be a somewhat firm woolen brace that’s just too flimsy to do much good, but the intent’s there and Steve’s choking up over a blood ridden _scarf_.

Steve clears his throat. He’s swallowed a lot of dust.

“Can you move your toes or anything?” Billy says. Steve does. Wiggles all five of them around in his shoe and winces. He nods. “Then it’s just sprained. Nothin’ to cry over, you can look if ya want.”

Billy’s noticed. One more thing to be embarrassed about.

Steve grimaces. It’s not like he can see anything under the wool or his jeans, but it’s a hard thing to force himself to look all the way down at where the big, _big_ pain is, expecting the worst.

There’s no blood soaking through what denim he does see. All the bones are still in his body.

A sprain. That’s all.

“How do you know about all this stuff?” Steve says.

“TV.”

 

—

 

Billy helps Steve up. Gets him standing on his one foot and holds most of Steve’s weight.

“If you tell me I should’ve planted my feet,” Steve says slowly and maybe it’s the pain or maybe he can feel another one of Billy’s _I told you so_ coming a mile away, he sort of wants to scream, “I will literally push you off this thing, see how you like it.”

“If you wanna do a homicide, I’m all for it, man, but,” Billy says, “you so should’ve planted your feet.”

Steve tries to push Billy, but he can’t quite get a good enough angle to do it.

 

—

 

The trick to getting back to the ground turns out to be a lot of side shuffling along the narrow beams with Billy trying to direct Steve on where to _hop_ and Steve _trying_ to not give in and either strangle Billy or tell him his cologne smells _like, really good_.

In the end they manage to get back to ground level. Miraculously, Steve manages to restrain himself on every impulse he had on the way down. He’s never been so happy to be standing on a bunch of dirt and cement and cigarette stubs in his life.

He leans on his own against one pillar, two hands against the cement, hunched over with his leg bent and in the air and breathes in until his chest hurts, _happy happy happy_ , that’s him. He could cry.

“It’s gonna take forever to get you back to the car.” Billy tells him as though Steve isn’t aware this trip back is already taking forever.

“Tell me I’m fat again, why don’t you.”

“You’re _slow_.” Billy corrects him. “And like hell am I gonna spend the next week dragging you around.”

Billy pulls Steve up off the pillar by his arm, gets him to stand unsteady on his one leg then turns his back to Steve and tugs at Steve’s arms, pulling them and him against Billy’s back, his arms around Billy’s neck.

“What is happening?” Steve says. Maybe he _did_ hit his head after all.

“Saddle up, hombre.”

Steve flushes, deeply, thoroughly, and takes a moment to make sure this is what he thinks it is.

Billy bends and grabs Steve’s thighs and pulls and hefts him up and suddenly Steve is off the ground and being carried.

 _It’s exactly what he thinks_.

“A, um, a piggyback ride?”

Billy _groans_ in irritation— _don’t call it that._ He adjusts his grip on Steve and turns his head so Steve can watch him roll his eyes. “You got any better ideas or do you really wanna Peter Rabbit your way back to the camaro?”

 

—

 

An understatement would be saying _it’s been a while_ since anyone’s carried Steve. He can’t really remember the last time his parents picked him up or the last time he jumped on Tommy’s back, drunk or high or both, and demanded Tommy start galloping, the two of them eventually falling over in a heap.

Tommy doesn’t and never did have the kind of strength to carry someone Steve’s size. Steve’s no waif. He’s tall and muscular in his own way. He’s _heavy_. Nancy gave it a shot once and had managed two steps before they fell back into bed together.

Billy carries him easily enough. Picks him up with only a grunt. Only starts to breathe a little heavier when they’re close to the fence.

The ride goes smooth, Billy’s gentle with Steve’s right leg and walks fast and single-mindedly, only mentions some _small_ pitstop theft twice, grunts out some cheap shots about Steve weighing _a shitload_ and _you really gotta lighten up on the dumpster diving_ when Steve decides yelling _yeehaw!_ and _git along lil doggie_ , thinking it would help distract him from Billy’s cologne, his hairspray, _his smell_ , and how he can feel every one of Billy’s back muscles pressed up against him.

Steve’s arms are locked loosely around Billy’s shoulders and he’s clenching his thighs around Billy’s middle as best as he can to help out. Billy’s back is broad, so is his waist. He’s solid. He really is all muscles. He’s cigarettes and masculinity and long hair his dad would raise an eyebrow at that keeps getting in Steve’s mouth. There’s so much contact going on for Steve to think on later when he’s got a chance and his leg isn’t being a persistent mood killer.

Mostly.

 _Mainly_.

It’s fun.

Like, a lot of fun.

Like, Steve kind of wishes this was an acceptable thing to do when he’s not in need of an extra pair of legs or when he’s not trashed. Kids really do have it all. He’d love go another round in life. He’d change a few major things and he’d appreciate all the piggyback rides so much more than kid-Steve ever did. Kid-Steve didn’t know what he had. Kid-Steve was an ungrateful little snot and eighteen-year-old-Steve would really love to give that brat a shake and tell him to pay more attention.

They reach the fence. Billy sets Steve back on the ground right next to it, gets him in arm’s length so Steve can rely on the fence to stand and not have to wobble in the wind and risk another tumble. Steve nearly gets himself killed by asking _wanna go another lap?_ and silently asks _what the fuck is wrong with you?_ to himself afterwards.

The answer is lengthy. He doesn’t have time for it. He’d rather not get into that now.

Billy raises his arms above his head, stretching out his back, groaning when it _pops_. Steve can hear his spine crack. His shirt rides up, showing a slip of his smooth abdomen that looks pale in the moonlight.

Steve looks back to the mall.

The giant intimidating shadow stands less scary, less creepy, not as imposing and towering as when he’d first saw it. Just a bunch of metal and cement, nothing to get all in a hissy about. Billy was right.

He spots the beam they’d sat on, it sticks out like the plank on a massive ship.

It’s high. It’s _so_ high. If they’d fallen— _jesus_.

Seeing it from down here sends a thrill through Steve. He’d climbed that. He did _that_.

Nancy would have a heart attack.

“Holy shit, Billy, we climbed _that._ ” Steve says, grinning, stupidly happy, pointing up at the beam. A burst of that same rush from making it to the top fills him up and shows itself in how he says _Billy_.

Billy looks up up _up_ and sees it too, grins back at him, curls sticking to his forehead that he brushes back.

“Fuck yeah we did.”

 

—

 

The chain-link fence only took a few seconds to climb over, as clumsily as Steve did with two working feet. On this side, though, there’s another problem: the green tarp blocks anyone from getting a steady foothold. It’s thick plastic, the kind that’ll last through every kind of storm Indiana can offer. There’s absolutely no way for Steve to climb over this with his leg in such bad shape.

Billy thinks the same thing. He holds up one finger to Steve.

He shoves one of the flashlights at Steve and bends down to tug up the leg of his jeans and pulls a switchblade out of his boot.

“Um.” Steve says, slightly alarmed as Billy flicks it open. The blade’s long. Looks sharp. The kind of knife that’s got that _meant for stabbing_ design.

The rumor that Billy may have belonged to a gang back in California starts to seem a little less farfetched.

Billy places the knife as far up as he can reach on the tarp and swiftly brings it down, smoothly slicing it open. He flicks his knife closed and tosses it to Steve and Steve fumbles to catch it one handed, it bounces in his palm twice but he gets there, he grabs it, nervous of accidentally opening it and cutting himself, almost tumbling over and having to hop to keep from face-planting on the ground.

Billy grips both sides of the newly split tarp and rips it open all the way from the top and to the bottom.

“I got this.” Billy says. “Just wait here a sec.”

Steve’s stomach plummets, not liking the idea of being left alone _again_. It could be the middle of the day and the mall could be made out of rainbows and the cutest puppies in the world and he’d still feel the same. His face must say it too because Billy claps him on the shoulder. It’s a night of Steve needing to constantly be reassured.

“Just—trust me, okay?” Billy says. It costs him something to say it. He bites at his lip. Making only fleeting eye contact with Steve like he’s not sure if Steve will say he does.

He climbs up the fence, as easy as if he were simply walking, gets to the top and pauses.

“If any creepy crawlies come for ya, stab’m.” Billy says and swings his leg around and he’s over in seconds, dropping onto the ground. Perfectly. Ten out of ten. He turns around and gives Steve a two-fingered salute.

“I’m getting real tired of all these one-liners.” Steve calls out. Billy laughs. Throws over his shoulder _no you’re not._

Steve leans heavily on the fence and watches him unlock the camaro’s trunk through the chain-links, reach into the very, very back as he all but climbs into the trunk, bent over with one leg kicked up in the air. The mystery of what he’s reaching for is keeping Steve from succumbing to the chill of being alone.

Then he thinks—remembers—

 _The earring_.

Steve scrambles to check, hadn’t thought to do it back when he fell with Billy all over him, caring and nice and focused _only_ on him. He pats at his back pockets. His wallet’s still there. His keys are still in his jacket.

The earring—

The little stud is hiding in the very corner of his pocket.

Steve sags against the fence in relief, laughing at himself. If he’d lost it—shit. That would be shit.

He’s going to have a head full of grey hair by tomorrow and it will be all Billy’s fault.

 

—

 

Billy says, _there you are, baby,_ and pulls out a pair of bolt-cutters. Big ones. He tells Steve to hold the flashlight _here_ and starts cutting the fence at the top and works his way down.

“Should I ask why you have those?” Steve says.

“Probably not. Wouldn’t wanna mess up your fragile morals.”

Fair enough. Billy had a whole life in California. Steve would just look lame if he said _hey, I’m cool too_ after so thoroughly showing how _not_ cool he is the entire night. He used to be, though, that should count. Somehow.

Billy finishes cutting and bends the fence on either side, uses his foot to bend the metal more and make it stick so it doesn’t swing back and hit either of them. Billy helps Steve through, the same side-shuffle they’d done most of the night to climb back down.

In the camaro, they warm their hands by pressing their fingers to the vents. Billy moans, wiggling his fingers, forehead pressed to the steering wheel. Steve should have worn his gloves. Getting sensation back in his digits hurts, tiny pricks of blood and life, but he presses them harder to the vent anyways, flipping them over every few seconds, sticking them down _into_ the vent too. Happy to be warm and off his feet. His knee clicks when he moves it now. His ankle—he peels his jeans up, peeks under the scarf to see that his ankle is definitely swollen. Plump and probably red if there was better light.

Steve flops back against his seat, staring up at the camaro’s ceiling that’s pale blue in the day.

 

—

 

They stop at the Fair Mart. Billy parks in the corner spot, away from the other cars. Steve shove his wallet at Billy and Billy heads inside to buy some smokes and ice. He leaves the camaro running.

In the parking lot, Steve’s eyes sting from the brightness of the fluorescent lights shining out from storefront windows. He turns the volume down and sits in the cloudy silence. His head hurts. A small headache that’ll last until tomorrow. He recognizes one of the other cars—a station wagon belonging to Mr. Wheeler that Steve had seen near daily when he’d been weaseling his way into the Wheeler house. Steam drifts off the hood. Steve’s gut instinct is to slip down in his seat and hide.

Mr. Wheeler’s apathetic towards him. Neither likes him or dislikes him. He’s hard to read, though, Steve never managed to figure out if he was on his good side or not. The only words Steve’s exchanged with him are _good morning_ and _goodnight_ and based off the reactions from those deep conversations, Mr. Wheeler is completely _whatever_ to Steve’s existence.

Doesn’t matter much now. Steve’s a no-good ruffian and his daughter’s ex-boyfriend, nothing special and not his problem.

Steve busies himself. Uses the sideview mirror to try and comb his hair into something reasonable—it’s untamable without product—then he looks through Billy’s box of cassettes, arranging the tapes in alphabetical order to distract himself from focusing on Mr. Wheeler or how there’s plenty of light to see the damage his ankle took and have to deal with that this second.

Billy buys what Steve owes him. Two packs of Marlboro Reds, a case of beer that’s _not_ American Colonial—and a couple cans of Coke. He jumps back into the car and tosses back Steve’s wallet. He has a fake ID that says he’s nineteen that he got made during the first couple of weeks he moved to Hawkins—he has this special ability to sniff out local counterfeiters.

 _Not as good as my California one_ , Billy had shrugged, _but you make do with the shit you get handed_.

Billy sticks two cigarettes in his mouth, the spark on his lighter works on his first try and he lights them both at the same time, hands one to Steve and it’s like some kind of magic trick how Billy inhales half of his without exhaling once.

“That’s the stuff right there.” Billy sighs happily, stretching out in his seat, forearms hitting the roof and his hips bucking up, he fills the small compact insides of the camaro, too big for the car, for Hawkins. Steve’s cigarette sits limp on his bottom lip after the first puff fills him with its pleasant burn, smoke falling from his mouth as he watches Billy outright, his nails scratching idly, wonderingly, at his jeans.

Billy cracks the window, reaches over between Steve’s knees, his arm brushes against Steve’s inner thigh, and pops open the glove compartment. Steve sees papers and receipts and _another_ switchblade. Billy finds the roll of gauze Steve bought yesterday and a pill bottle too, he shuts the glove compartment with the back of his hand.

Billy shakes three pills out onto his palm. The bottle’s prescription. Steve spots a typed out _Hargrove_ on the side.

Billy holds the pills out for Steve. “Nothin’ wild. Just some painkillers.”

“Yum.” Steve says and tries to swallow them dry, but they don’t go down, they get stuck in the middle of his throat. Billy gives him a coke as a chaser, pops it open for him and slaps Steve on the back. It’s hard to scrounge up more embarrassment to hang himself with when he already has so much rope already.

It turns out the Fair Mart’s out of ice, all their supplies was bought up by the dance committee. It’s December and it should be snowing, _really_ snowing, any day now not just icy sludge on the roads and _there’s no ice_.

Steve presses the Coke can to the side of his face, against his scraped cheek and sighs at the cold on his scraped skin. Hawkins is a bumpkin town in the backwoods of a bumpkin state. It’s no comparison to California.

 

—

 

Billy pats his lap, straight faced, cigarette dwindling between his fingers, blasé, uncaring against the worry and the uncertainty from the mall and says, “Gimme your foot.”

The light from the store highlights the gold in Billy’s windswept curls and the stark blue of his eyes telling Steve he’s serious. This kind of attention Steve’s unused to. Makes him antsy, fills him with helium and ideas.

Steve shuffles around in the cramped space of the camaro, sits with his back pressed to the passenger door, hefting up his hurt leg with both his hands gripping his thigh to keep from putting strain on his knee and to direct where it should go—the tight space between the blue steering wheel and Billy’s abdomen. He tucks his left leg under himself and swivels around awkwardly to avoid _bumping_ and _hurting_ when he lowers his foot then his calf onto Billy’s lap and holds his breath.

Billy undoes his scarf from Steve’s ankle. Tosses it into the backseat. He unties Steve’s shoe, tugs at one end of the shoelace and pulls. It comes undone. He bites his cigarette between his canines, the smoke lazily drifting down his chest and out the slight crack in the window. The music gets lost in the sound of the camaro’s engine and heater and the warmth of Billy’s thighs—strong enough to lift him and carry him—against Steve’s leg.

Billy ashes his cigarette in Steve’s half-full Coke can.

“This’ll probably hurt.” Billy says, warning Steve.

“Yeah, I guessed that.”

Billy pulls at both sides of Steve’s shoe, widening it, getting it ready to slip off and just that much movement— _it hurts_. Bouncing back from the dull ache to _this_ makes Steve close his eyes. Roll his neck. Take a deep, _deep_ breath, the centering kind to get his thoughts in order and tell himself it’s not _so_ bad.

“You ever sprain your ankle before?”

Steve thinks on it for a moment and remembers the summer before sixth grade. “My wrist? I was playing baseball. I think I was, I was like ten or—“

Billy pulls his shoe off without warning him. Steve yelps, tries to yank his foot back, but Billy’s got a hold on him. He shushes Steve, pets his calf up and down, eyes shining with laughter that’s only a little mean.

Billy snaps his fingers. “Like a bandaid.”

“No.” Steve says. “Not like a bandaid. At all.”

Billy tosses Steve’s shoe in the passenger side footwell. Steve stuffs it into his backpack. Carefully. Billy uses both hands to pull Steve’s sock down, one thumb on each side of his ankle slipping under his sock—they’re cool against his skin, the slight scrape of his nail as he goes slow sends shivers up Steve’s back to his mouth to bite his lip from making a noise. It’s a low ache that hurts and feels good at the same time.

Bared and out in the open in the camaro, Steve’s toes twitch and ache and he’s going to be so, _so_ sore tomorrow morning.

Billy’s eyeing Steve’s foot, studying it. He pinches Steve’s big toe, softly, pointedly.

Steve can feel it coming.

“You’ve got freaky feet.” Billy, the dipshit, says.

Steve flushes. A flash of heat. There’s some embarrassment left after all. “Shuddup.”

“Seriously, they’re like _hands_. Look how fuckin’ long your toes are.” He pokes at Steve’s little toes one by one, his lips curling into a smile. “You could play a _pee-ani_ with these things.”

“I’ll kick you in the face, Jethro.”

“God, I’d like to see you try.”

Steve _does_ try, but he only manages to move his _bad_ ankle and groans over the top to make a show of it being _painful_ and that maybe he’s just a _tiny bit_ sensitive about his feet.

“I’m in _pain_. You can’t make fun of me when I’m in pain.”

“I was in plenty of pain yesterday and you were crackin’ wise left and right.”

“That’s ‘cause I’m funny, unlike certain other people in this car.”

Billy calls him a _baby_ and blows smoke out of his nose. He unrolls the gauze one handed by shaking it out, getting it ready, and holds Steve’s ankle with a steady grip in his other hand.

“How’s your, um.” Steve, feeling tongue tied and all kinds of dumb, glances out the window to the Fair Mart entrance to Mr. Wheeler’s car. “How’s the arm? Anyways?”

“Still attached.”

“And your head?”

“Apparently, bigger than ever.”

“I’m really asking, you know.”

Uneasy, Billy says, “Yeah, I know.”

 

—

 

Billy raises Steve’s leg to prop Steve’s foot up on his thigh so his ankle is out in the air and he can wrap it without having to lift him on every wind up.

“I don’t. I don’t remember when it was—it was after my—it was a long ass time ago. _Caddyshack_ just came out.” Billy rolls up Steve’s pant leg. It’s swollen to hell, real gross to look at. Not that Steve’s all that interested to. Steve’s looking at Billy instead. “I ask this girl out. Cheryl? Meryl? I don’t fuckin’ know. She’d been out for my ass all year. She smelled like ripe vag and had all her teeth.”

Steve cringes, regretting ever bringing up strawberries. “A real start to a fairytale romance.”

“Ain’t it though?” Billy laughs.

His head’s downturned, focused completely on getting Steve’s foot bandaged. His hair’s gone soft, the product blown out from the mall, and his curls tumble down, falling over his face. Billy tucks some behind his ear. Steve bites his lip. Billy starts winding the gauze at the arc and works his way up to the ankle at a steady pace.

“I ask her out. She says _yes_. Night of, I get blitzed out of my goddamn head. I’m seeing fucking _dragons_ that’s how high I am. My dad still makes me go— _fuck._ ” Billy accidentally knocks his hand against Steve’s foot, jarring it the wrong way which is _any_ way.

Steve jerks away, back hitting the camaro’s door, cursing between gritted teeth.

Billy holds Steve’s ankle with both hands, rubs lightly—tenderly—along the arc of his foot and slowly Steve unclenches, relaxes back into his hold, pries his nails out of the camaro’s upholstery.

Billy says, quietly, “That better?”

Steve nods.

He has no idea what his face is doing, he can just feel it heating up down to his neck and to his fucked up foot, even. The best way to avoid saying something dumb is to keep his mouth shut.

“So, shit happens.” Billy’s nose scrunches up at the memory. He starts to wind the gauze up Steve’s ankle now. It’s tighter than the scarf had been, it feels better too. “The usual bullshit. Whatever. He drives me to school. Tells me to knock it off like he’s gonna yell the pot outta me, make me sweat it out or something.” He shares a look with Steve. “I don’t even fucking go in. Just hang around outside ‘cause the world’s gone all,” he gestures with his hand, waving it, “fuckity, you know?”

Billy trails off. Sucks on his cigarette until it’s just a stub he flicks out through the window. He bends down to rip the gauze with his teeth and ties it off halfway up Steve’s calf. Steve feels the hot puff of his breath on his ankle and it shifts something inside of him, gets him jittery, revved up to go.

Steve unzips his coat a few inches, pulls at the collar of his shirt to get some air down there, gives himself some room to breathe, to cool down.

“What—what happened after that?” Steve says, his voice too high, cracking.

Billy shrugs, his hands resting on Steve’s ankle, his calf. Idly, he makes circles with his thumb over the gauze and along Steve’s bone.

“Nothing. Walked to the pier. Met up with some older guys from the neighborhood who didn’t have to deal with going to some bullshit school shindig. Ate, like, an entire pizza and didn’t come home until sunrise.” Billy smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “ _Way_ more fun than any dance could be.”

The story’s familiar.

Steve had experienced the grown up version where Billy had gone to the dance anyways. Steve adjusts the picture in his head of that kid with his big curls and rounder cheeks dressed up for a dance he’s never going to go to and of the boy sitting next to him who did the same thing all over again years later in a brand new town.

“What about Cheryl? Meryl?”

Billy pulls out two Coke cans from the bag and presses them to either side of Steve’s ankle and hands one to Steve to press to his knee and sharp cold nearly shocks Steve out of the realization Billy’s stuck in a loop and Steve’s gotten himself caught in the tide right alongside him.

Billy doesn’t answer for a while. Could be he’s waiting Steve’s attention out. He should know better. He clicks his tongue. A loud _POP_ in the quiet.

“She called me an _asshole_ during lunch and I told her to _fuck off and die._ ” Billy says it plainly. It is what it is. He looks Steve square in the eye, his lips quirked up in what could be something sad. “That better or worse than puking into a chick’s mouth?”

 

—

 

Mr. Wheeler walks passed the camaro. He sees Steve and waves at him with his keys in one hand and a bag in the other.

Steve waves back.

It’s the most pleasant interaction Steve’s ever had with him or with any of his ex-girlfriend’s dads.

 

—

 

The volume is low, the music like an afterthought filtered through the camaro’s steady engine.

“Hey,” Billy turns the volume up, “it’s your song.”

Stevie Nicks sings through static waves.

_The clouds never expect it/when it rains/but the sea changes colors/but the sea/does not change_

 

—

 

Billy’s standing outside the camaro holding the driver’s side door open, the seat pushed down, waving at Dustin and Max to _hurry the fuck up_. He cups his hand to his mouth and yells, _ANDALE! ANDALE! ANDALE FASTER YA LIL SHITS!_

The parking lots packed with parents picking their kids up and Billy’s magnetic when it comes to attracting a group’s attention. Steve waves to a few of the parents, smiling at their familiar shocked and disapproving faces he’d seen only a few hours ago.

Dustin and Max eventually break away from the rest of the group. Max kisses Lucas goodnight and Billy’s rapping his fingers in a fast tempo on the camaro.

Dustin climbs into the backseat first. Steve fiddles with the rearview mirror so he can see him while _very casually_ in a completely normal _Steve Harrington way_ holds his hand over his cheek and nudges his backpack between his legs, hiding his foot from _no one in particular_ and for _no specific reason at all_.

Steve’s not about to pour gasoline on the fire when it comes to the animosity between Dustin and Billy. He has other things he wants to do in life besides playing middleman.

“How was the dance? Did you boogie down or what?”

“Fine. Great. Totally worth the nervous breakdown.” Dustin smiles, brushing him off, and ducks out of view of the mirror. “Why is there a bloody scarf back here? Steve? Steven?”

Dustin pinches the bloody scarf, holding it up to shake at Steve, horrified and demanding answers.

 _Shit_.

“It’s _Steve_. It’s always been _just_ Steve, dude. And, you know, it’s nothing. Like, gimme—“ Steve reaches back and takes the scarf revealing the scrape on his cheek and the world is on fire as far as Dustin’s concerned so Steve cuts him off before he goes on another _rant_. “Billy didn’t do it, don’t even start.”

“Then what happened? Because you’re missing part of your face _again_ and Billy is the only common denominator here.”

“It was just—shit happens.”

“Like what though? I need the specifics.”

“Guy stuff?”

“What? What does that mean?” Dustin says. Baffled at the idea, the vagueness. Steve’s not about to run down the list of what happened. _Guy stuff_ is the best he’s got. “In the context of you and Billy Hargrove, _guy stuff_ cannot, in any way, mean anything _good_.”

Billy’s stops Max, blocking the car door with his arm. He points to the entrance of the school. Steve follows where he’s pointing—it’s Maggie standing at the top of the stairs waiting for her brother to come pick her up and walk her home.

He’s not going to. He’s probably passed out.

 _Shit_ , Steve thinks.

“You know that chick?” Billy says.

Max glances over to Maggie. She narrows her eyes at Billy, crossing her arms. “ _Gross_.”

“Shut up—you know her or not?”

“Thought you wanted me to _shut up?_ ”

“ _Maxine._ ”

“Fine. _Sorta_ , okay?” Max spits out. She eyes Billy with suspicion. Wary of what he’s up to. “Why?”

“Go tell her we’re giving her a ride home. Her brother’s not pickin’ her up.”

“Did you _do_ something?”

“Can you just do what I say without talking back for _once?_ ”

“Not if you, like, _murdered_ someone.”

“I’ll murder someone right now.”

Max pretends to laugh, nasally and low.

“You’re so creepy when you’re being nice. It’s _weird_.” Max says before she mutters _ugh, whatever_ and stomps back to the school entrance.

Dustin refuses to tell him more about the dance, stuck on Steve’s scraped cheek. He groans _you need to make better friends_ when Steve _clearly_ won’t go into a more detailed account of their itinerary for the night and what exactly _guy stuff_ could possibly mean between him and Billy that Dustin _wouldn’t_ get.

Dustin’s smart. He gets _everything_ , that’s what he thinks. Steve’s not looking forward to someday having to test if that’s true or not.

Maggie and Max shuffle into the car, squeezing into the backseat while Billy snaps his fingers, _don’t got all night ladies_ , an extra edge of gruff in his voice to cover up the fact that he’s being nice.

 _Billy Hargrove did the right thing, oo-ooh._ More heartwarming than anything spooky or supernatural.

 

—

 

Steve turns around this time to say, _hey_ , poking at the physical awkwardness that’s sitting in the backseat.

Maggie _squeaks_ , squished in the middle, her dress overflowing on top of Max and Dustin. Max has her nose pressed to the window, her face blistering red. Dustin’s not looking much better. Neither is Maggie.

No one says _hey_ back.

Billy slams the camaro’s door with a sigh, adjusts his rearview mirror to where it was before Steve tried to be sneaky, a growing tic in his eye. “There’s gonna be so much fuckin’ glitter back there.”

It’s a two minute drive. Less with Billy’s California stops when there’s a sign.

“I have an ice breaker.” Dustin announces. He’s off his seat and he’s practically kneeling between Billy and Steve. “Are you ready for this, Steve? I think you’re gonna dig it.”

“Dustin.” Max says, sounding horrified and tired like she’s had to listen to this the entire night. “Don’t even _think_ about it. Please, like, _please_ look at who you’re talking to.”

“I’m talking to _Steve_ , thank you very much.” Dustin says to Max.

“I’m so ready.” Billy says.

“Maybe listen to Max? Dustin?” Steve tries. He does. Like, he can already feel this isn’t going to be _good._

“Okay, so, _so_ tell me what do you think of _this—_ “ and then Dustin, the kid who Steve really does want to succeed in life and eventually find a girlfriend and get married and have kids and do the whole shebang that leads to a happily ever after, _purrs_.

Steve’s saying _no, no, no_ before Dustin even finishes.

Max leaps across Maggie to slap her hand over Dustin’s mouth and pull him back. “Shut up, _shut up_. Oh my god, _Dustin_ , what’s wrong with you?” Max gives Dustin a sad little shake and retreats back to her side of the bench seat, covering her face with her hands. Muffled by her embarrassment and her palms, she tells Maggie, _sorry_.

“Definitely don’t do that. Ever. Like, not even when you’re alone. Keep it inside.” Steve says.

“Fuck them. They don’t know _shit_. Do that. Exactly that.” Billy says over all their objections. “Literally never stop doing it.”

“Don’t listen to him Dustin.”

Steve puts his hand on the side of Billy’s head and shoves him just a little. Billy shoves Steve back, a wide smile full of mean spirited glee lighting him up from a thousand watts to a million.

Dustin shrugs, plays the purr off. “Pfft. Like I would listen to—to _him_. As if. Yeah.” Dustin snorts. Sticks his nose up. _As if_.

Maggie says, quietly, to herself or the car or just Dustin, Steve’s not sure, “It was kinda cute?”

 

—

 

Maggie’s dropped off first. Billy waits until she’s inside before driving to Dustin’s house where Dustin makes Steve pinky swear to call him in the morning. At Cherry Lane the lights are on and the door opens before Max is halfway up the driveway. Billy speeds away with his jaw clenched tight, lips thinned into an angry line and Steve thinks maybe Billy isn’t exactly champing at the bit to go home so Steve tells him he’s got all the Brando movies back at his place. Some Clint Eastwood too—Steve’s a sucker for cowboy flicks.

It’s the same offer he’d made earlier, but after tonight, an empty house with beer and parents who won’t be home until tomorrow and even when they _are_ home they won’t care if he’s got a friend over, makes Steve throw the suggestion out there again.

Billy doesn’t bunt it this time. He doesn’t say _yes_ either. What he does is park in front of Steve’s house and walk around to the other side of the camaro to open Steve’s door, hold his backpack for him and help him to the front door and tells Steve _you better have The Wild One_. It’s his favorite. _That Thunderbird does everything for me._

At the door, Billy lets go of Steve so Steve can find his keys, and says, “I think we’re cursed.”

Steve pauses. Palms his keys in his hand. On the doorstep, under the little light, the welcome mat under his one foot with the other held off the ground, the only sound the occasional breeze whistling passed the house, it’s downright chilly.

“So, let me get this straight, you don’t believe in, like, supernatural shit, but you _do_ believe in _curses?_ ” Steve laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“Okay, _never_ said I didn’t believe in _supernatural shit_ , just monsters. I’m a multi-faceted motherfucker.”

“And I’m over here not arguing with you.”

“Fuck you too, balloon boy.” Billy says and before Steve can argue or get properly offended and mortified that his color coordinating talents have been brought up at all, Billy doggedly continues, “I just think that we’re probably cursed. Every time we hang, one of us ends up bleeding.”

“We’ve hung out every day for two weeks and I don’t see—that’s just. No, that’s dumb.” Steve clutches at the warmth. At Billy’s self-deprecating smile that’s real and for him. “You’re like— _like_ super dumb. So dumb. Like, wow. Wanna high five?”

Billy sticks his tongue out. “Well, you’re fuckin’ ugly.”

“My nickname’s _pretty boy_ in case you missed it. I’m seriously the _most_ prettiest. Ask anyone.” There’s no acting cool with a twisted ankle, so Steve hops his way closer in the small entryway that leads to a cold house that won’t be so cold tonight. It feels as silly as it probably looks, but Billy’s laughter huffs out of him in small puffs of clouds and Steve’s thrilled, laughing too and then they’re left looking at each other across a tiny space under a warm, warm light.

He pulls the bandaid off.

One of them, at least.

“I’m.” Steve starts and pauses and stumbles. “I’m sort of—I’m getting my car back tomorrow so you don’t have to, like, drive me around anymore or anything.” Steve would scuff his shoe if he had two feet to stand on. “And thanks for—for _everything_ and for giving me a ride everywhere, like, all the time too—probably a big relief to have me outta your hair _finally_.”

“You’re not so bad.” Billy says. “Your music’s garbage and if I ever have to listen to Boy George again I’m gonna shiv myself in the ears.” Billy waves his hand around, a little towards Steve and a lot towards the general world. His eyes are set on the welcome mat.“But you’re pretty all right.”

Steve nearly _giggles_. Like a kid. He’s lost it. He really has.

 _Ridiculous_ , that’s who he is.

Steve puts a hand on the wooden trim around the front door. His ankle isn’t so bad and tomorrow it’ll be better. It’ll be sore and it’ll be better and on its way to good.

Billy carried him. Patched him up just as well as he patches himself up—it has to mean something.

“Do you regret it?” Steve blurts out. Says it after thinking too much and Billy’s got no idea what he’s talking about, so Steve slows down, gets his thoughts in an order that makes sense, if only to himself. “Getting high, not showing up to the dance—do you regret it?”

A car drives passed the house way over the speed limit. A gust of wind hits them. Ruffles their hair. A curl cuts loose and hangs in front of Billy’s left eye.

Billy shifts on his feet, hands tucked in the front pockets of his jeans and Steve keeps his eyes low, face heating up, watching Billy’s fingers twitch through denim. Billy turns to gaze out at the camaro or the dark blanket of the woods across the street.

He shrugs.

“Would’ve ended the same either way.” Billy says.

“You never know, she might’ve really liked you.”

Billy’s laugh hurts to hear, rings false, makes him want to tell Billy to stop.

“I’m not some fuckin’ idiot who can’t see shit for what it is. I know I’m hard to like. Can’t say two words without pissing someone off.”

“That’s a load of bullshit.” Steve says. “ And none of that means it’s impossible, I mean, look at me. I like you.”

Billy looks at him, startled, wide-eyed. Steve can see the whole ocean.

His heart _THUDS_. Shakes his eardrums. Knocks him back.

Billy’s rough around the edges. Rough nearly all the way through. He’s mean. He’s an asshole. He tries. He’s the guy who sticks around and makes Steve laugh and made him realize there’s parts of himself he still has to meet.

Steve likes him. It’s as simple and complicated as that.

He reaches out and brushes the hair out of Billy’s eyes, tucks those curls behind his ear, his palm catching some of the scruff along Billy’s jaw. His ear’s red and a little puffy from when Steve had hit him. Steve touches his thumb to the rim of Billy’s ear, the heated skin soft like velvet and he hears Billy’s breath hitch and _stop_.

Steve’s being pulled in, lost in touching Billy. His skin is so warm. Softly, gently, he pinches Billy’s earlobe where his earring is. Feels him stiffen. Feels the searing heat of his eyes under thick dark lashes, asking and wondering. Not believing him and hoping to anyways.

“I really am sorry.” Steve says, the words seem to be carried through water, unhurried and quiet and precarious and they just keep going. “You’re gonna play this off but, seriously, thank you.”

Steve’s gotten better at reading Billy. Thinks maybe this right here could be Steve’s chance to be more than just _fine_.

The front door opens.

Steve yanks his hand off of Billy, stumbling back.

Billy catches his elbow, stops him from falling, touches him only as much as he has to to steady him. He lets go of Steve just as quickly. Steps away and puts space between them that Steve hadn’t meant for.

His mom is standing in the doorway in her thick woolen socks and robe tied in the front and clutched-closed at the collar with her small hand.

She’s as shocked to see Steve as Steve is to see her.

Maybe Steve should’ve noticed the lights were on when they drove up.

The lights are always on, though.

“Mom?” Steve’s voice sounds so far away. “What are you—you’re supposed to be back tomorrow.”

“I thought I’d come home just a _little_ early—who’s this?” She spots the camaro and claps. “Oh! You must be Billy—so sweet of you to drive our Steve for so long. You know—“

Steve interrupts her. Jittery and on the edge, he can’t stand it. “Can you give us a minute? Mom? Please?”

“It’s all right,“ Billy says, his tone as sweet as it had been with Claudia and just as fake. He sets Steve’s backpack down. Claps Steve on the shoulder. He’s already backing out from the stoop, not looking at Steve, not really looking at Steve’s mom either. “I gotta head out anyways—curfew and all.”

Billy gets his keys out and tosses them in his hand. Steve’s stomach dropping lower with every step towards the camaro, that doomed, awful, no-good, downright-bad sensation of fucking up without meaning to hits him in the chest, strangles his insides when the keys land in Billy’s palm.

“Nice to meet you.” His mom says. “You’ll have to come over for dinner as a—a thank you one night.”

“Love to, Mrs. Harrington.” Over his shoulder he waves, yells, “Merry Christmas!”

The camaro howls out of the driveway, out into the street and becomes a fading roar in Steve’s ears.

 

—

 

Inside, his mom is talking. Saying _something_.

 _Nice young man_ , is all Steve catches. He’s not paying attention. He’s gone numb. His head’s emptied out in a panic. All he can see is Billy’s face. The fake smile. Steve had looked away and then Billy had pasted on a phony grin. He’d looked away. He’d pushed himself away and then he’d looked away and Billy was grinning that fake fake fake _grin_.

“Steve? What happened to your face? Why are you limping?” His mom’s concerned. She hovers around him, fluttering and nervous, worried over his well being. She tries to touch him again and he yanks himself away _again_.

“Nothing.” Steve bites out.

“Was it another fight?”

“No.”

“I’ll call a cab—or, no, I’ll call Dr. Sipowicz. He won’t mind. I’m sure—he’ll be home. I’m sure he will.”

“ _Mom._ It’s fine.”

“You’re bleeding. You can barely _walk_.”

Steve hangs his head. Leans nearly all his weight onto the railing and thinks it wouldn’t be that uncomfortable to spend the night sleeping on some stairs.

Inside the house, there’s only the sound of the television on in the den. Nothing from the office. No lights on in the kitchen. No snoring from upstairs. The house feels different. Off balance. The silence isn’t quite so crushing.

His mom came home alone.

Steve breathes out slow and he lifts his head to try and give his mom what will make her okay with walking away and leaving him alone.

“I’m okay. I’m fine. I gotta. I’m gonna go to bed. I’m really—” Steve swallows around the sharp disappointment lodged in his throat that he might choke on any minute, “—I’m really tired.”

“Let me help you upstairs—“

She reaches for him one more time and Steve dodges her. Holds himself out of reach with his hands up to block her and tries to act like he doesn’t see the hurt crossing her face. He doesn’t want her care or her help or for her to try being someone she isn’t and never really was. She’s not Claudia.

He didn’t have her before. He doesn’t want her now.

“I’m good. Really.”

“Can I bring you some ice?”

“I got it.”

Steve limps to the kitchen and opens the freezer. Grabs his usual bag of peas and an extra bag of carrots for his knee. His mom trails behind him.

“Steve, I have to talk to you.” There’s something in her tone pleading with him to listen to her.

Steve ignores her. He’ll care later.

 

—

 

Steve locks his bedroom door behind himself and refuses to feel bad about giving his mom the cold shoulder. She deserves it. She’s done the same to him before. It’s just payback. _Fuck her_ , Steve thinks, steaming out his ears and then, now that he’s alone, in the privacy of his room, with his lamps and his bat and his bed, the anger leaves him and the guilt comes crawling back like it’s never left.

He’s tired. He’s in pain and he’s _tired_ and he’s fucked it all up and he feels so monumentally _stupid_. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his forearm and leans all of his weight against the wall for just a minute until his leg tells him to _move along and get off’a me_.

Steve flicks the light switch and all of his lamps come to life. He drags himself to his bed. Drops his backpack on the floor. Digs out the earring from his pocket and places it on his nightstand along with the bags of frozen vegetables. Strips off his coat and shirt and tosses them onto the floor too and throws himself onto his bed, flops onto the sheets and winces when his leg moves in a weird-but-used-to-be-normal direction.

Steve shimmies himself into a comfortable position and stares at the ceiling and sighs and wallows in all the guilt and the disappointment and anxieties that have crept back now that he’s alone and it’s _a lot_ so he distracts himself with getting his jeans off, an awkward wrestling match against himself that takes an honest to god _lifetime_ and he feels accomplished once he finally gets the damn things off and throws them across the room. They hit the wall with a _bang_ thanks to his wallet and keys.

 _Oops_ , Steve thinks dryly.

He stuffs two pillows under his leg, one at his ankle another at his knee. Huddling under the blankets he tries to will himself to warm up while his leg sticks out with two packs of frozen goods balancing on top.

The ceiling’s the same as it’s been since Steve was a kid. The same popcorn constellations. The train conductor with the big mustache and glum expression. The fox with the tail bigger than the rest of it prancing through some meadows. The girl with big Shirley Temple curls who reminds him of every girlfriend.

No amount of exhaustion is going to get his brain to stand down and stop beating the rest of him up. The night’s on a loop. Replaying itself.

Steve’s alone in his bed and he begins to drown. He won’t make it in college. Working for his dad’s a nonstarter. Graduating’s iffy at best. Billy’s must hate him. Billy’s not gonna talk to him after _that_. His mom saw. She must have seen. Keith too. His dad’s gonna hate him even more— _will his mom?_ What if his mom hates him? What the hell does a guy do when the only thing he’s good at is killing monsters?

Steve’s so tired of watching the same old thing. Every line’s memorized. He could mouth the words to every scene. None of it matters. Not really. _Not really._ He doesn’t want to care. He’d been so sure he didn’t.

Steve turns his head into his pillow. On the carpet is the bloodstain Billy’d left.

Billy’s in every corner of Steve’s world and Steve would _really_ like to get some shut eye over here.

Huffing, having had enough of his own thoughts, he leans over his bed and grabs his backpack by one of its straps and drags it over. He digs out his shoe and tosses it by the door. He’ll burn it later. He pulls out the polaroid and the recipe for snickerdoodle cookies.

Billy looks like an idiot. Steve does too. It’s an awful photograph of him. One of the worst. He places it on his end table, props it up against the base of one of his lamps and stares at it for a long moment, running his fingers through his hair like Billy had done.

He turns his head away and reads the recipe. The next time he has the house to himself, he’ll bake a couple dozen. He’ll have to get some shortening. Add it to the weekly grocery order. He’ll test them out on Dustin to see if they’re as good as his mom’s. He’ll see if Billy wants any too—if Billy is still talking to him.

The recipe gets tucked away into _The Sirens of Titan_ and for a few minutes Steve reads. Tries to, anyways. Gets through a page before his eyes flutter shut and the book falls on top of his chest.

He sleeps with his face pointed towards one of his many lights and, thankfully, doesn’t dream.

 

—

 

Sunday morning, his mom is knocking on his bedroom door. Steve wakes with an aching leg and an idea.

He hurries to get dressed. Pulls on a pair of sweatpants. His shirt from last night. Splotchy bruises have formed on his ankle and knee. His ankle is slightly less swollen from last night. His knee _clicks_. The bags of peas and carrots are mushy and warm and he should throw them away. Instead, he sets them on his desk, on top of the stack of college brochures he’s too anxious to open, and hobbles out of his room and runs into his mom just outside his door.

“Steve, I really do need to tell you something.” His mom says as he passes her. She’s dressed, smelling like fresh hairspray and a new spritz of perfume. She’s wearing her overcoat. She’s wearing heels _inside_.

“Later.” Steve says then shouts over his shoulder, the guilt having marinated overnight and softened him on the person his mother is, “Morning!”

She follows after him, talking all the way to the garage, trying to tell him _something_. He’s not listening. He’s not letting himself listen. The world is bigger than this. Than what she’s telling him. Small things that don’t really matter.

Steve goes into the garage. It’s freezing and smells like gasoline. He flicks the light on. Drags his foot to the beemer and opens the passenger side door and sits inside. He pops open the glove compartment and pulls out the map that will lead him to all the proof he needs. _X marks the spot._

Or _a skull drawn in red sharpie_ marks the spot.

“Steve.” His mom says, leaning into the car and putting a hand out to block the map and grab his attention. He nails are manicured and have a white sheen to them. “I have to go, but we’ll—we’ll talk later? Just, _please_ get that _thing_ off the front step? I don’t know where you got it from or—or if this is one of your _pranks_ with Tommy, but I would like it gone before I get back, all right?”

Steve’s confused and hides it. Nods.

She tries to smile, a pained, unhappy thing that hurts to see on her face.

His mom leaves in a hurry, fussing with the back of her hair. He listens to the front door open and close. A moment later, a car drives off. She must have taken a taxi to—to wherever.

Steve _wasn’t_ listening.

Not yet.

_Later._

 

—

 

At the front door, Steve cautiously turns the handle, opening it just a crack, his other hand clutching the map. He peers outside into the cold morning finding that it’s snowed.

Steve drops the map on the floor. Relief soars through him. He bursts out laughing. Billy is an _idiot_.

On the front step, big and metal with lightbulbs and an orange extension cord leading out of sight, is the aluminum star from the mall freed from its plastic wrappings shining brighter than freshly fallen snow in morning light.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 28k and I'm so sorry. I worked on it for a long time and I apparently had quite a lot to say (good gawd).
> 
> If you made it this far, let me know what you liked about it/if you want me to continue the story/etc. etc. etc.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://granpappy-winchester.tumblr.com)


End file.
